To Come of Age
by Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg
Summary: "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things." - 1 Corinthians 13:11. After the controversial win by Coriander Rivets, the Hunger Games become more than just a childish spectacle in the eyes of the Capitol...this is the 18th Annual Hunger Games!
1. Addiction

**To Come of Age - The 18th Annual Hunger Games**

 _"When you look long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche_

 **Coriander "Cori" Rivets, 16.  
**

 **Winner of the 17th Annual Hunger Games.**

 **District Six.**

Six months.

Six months and fresh wounds appear daily on my wrists, six months and their cries are seared into my brain, replaying their agony on a continuous loop. Six months and the Capitol is far from done with me. Even now, their cameras are making their way to my pathetic little district, their stylists are invading my home. I guess they are my prep team now, assigned to make me look halfway decent, to hide my flaws. They poke my ribs, commenting on my too skinny frame, laughing as though I am not even in the same home.

Same as it ever was.

"Coriander, my dear, we simple must do something about your skin," Agrippina proclaims, running her fingers down my cheek before I yank myself away. "And your hair is so oily and flat...like a little Seam child."

Her voice is like glass, her touch like venom; each equally as grating.

"Do I have to do this?" I beg, running my fingers along a particularly rough scar that follows my veins down my left wrist. "Can't you be sent in my place?"

Her laughter is worse than both her touch and normal speaking voice. "But of course I can't, child. Was it I that captured the heart of Panem with my cunning and wit? It is you that they love right now, child. Bring me that girl, the one that had us all waiting on baited breath for you to attack that brutish boy from Two."

 _Cunning and wit._ I scoff to myself. _Along with the bounce in my step, my ability to look family members in eyes, and a night of dreamless sleep, they are things about myself that no longer exist._

"We start with showing you off to all of Panem, remind them of all you accomplished," she continues, running her dark blue fingernails through my listless hair. "It isn't a very long segment, just something we can use as filler before the real fun starts." Her laughter makes my ears ring. "We will begin in Twelve and work our way through each district until you arrive back at the Capitol, for a celebration in your honor and a final interview with Gaius Flickerman. Isn't that exciting?"

 _As exciting as spending all my time here with you._

"Pallas should be here any-" she ignores the jolting of my body as my door swings open, slamming hard against the wall behind it. "Pallas, darling...so good of you to arrive."

Pallas Chino was once a designer to the President himself, before downgrading himself to head stylist of such a down-played District such as my own. Colorful feathers adorn his chestnut-colored locks, which flow down longer than my own, sweeping the small of his back. He dresses in a style much more in tune with nature than gems and gold, like Agrippina and the rest of the sheep blundering through the streets of the Capitol. His voice is less high pitched than hers as well, which makes me gravitate more towards him out of protection for my ears. He is a silver lining in this hellish situation.

Bringing up the rear was his trio of bumbling assistants, known as a prep team...despite neither prepping, nor working as a team. Pallas prefers to work mostly alone, leaving Plump, Perky, and Purple with nothing to do but make me presentable for him, which they quickly drug me in the direction of my large upstairs bathroom to do.

"These fingernails, darling!" Perky (I refuse to learn their real names) groaned, rolling his pure white eyes. "You've been biting them again. And this hair...what have you been doing with yourself since The Capitol?"

 _Oh, I don't know...killing other teenagers to secure my own survival, dealing with the consistent nightmares of said feats, trying to maintain eye contact with people long enough to be engaging...the usual._

With a scoop of her hand, Plump had a hold of my wrist like it was a delicious chocolate candy. "Love...there are better ways to deal with your...issues."

Just as quickly as she grabbed my arm, I pull it away. "What business of it is yours? Pop come more goop on me, dazzle me up, and toss me to the hungry wolves."

A pang of guilt hits me hard as her eyes brim with tears. Of the three, the short and stout member had always had my best interests at heart, so to speak. When she noticed that I coward at the touch of the male members of the prep team, it was she that bathed me, wiping what she saw as years of dirt from my skin with soft hands and even offered to help me change into Pallas's creations, despite being told by him to leave. She made sure to stand up for me when Steam mocked my Training Score of a pathetic _4_ and defended my awkward interview with Gaius. Even Pallas pretended as if nothing at all was happening around him when it came to Steam, and why should he - Steam will forever be the same bully of a boy this District made him into before they shoved him into these games, just as I will always be the broken little girl I was before my name was picked out of that bowl.

"I'm sorry, I just...the nights are hard." I don't meet her gaze. "What does Pallas have in mind?"

* * *

District Twelve was harder than I had thought.

Viola Brune was nothing more than Bloodbath fodder in the making, despite being one of the oldest tributes in the arena. Her body was barely more than skin and bones, which quickly made sense when I made eye contact with her siblings as they huddled together on a platform in a sea of olive-skinned people. There are seven children in total, ranging in age of about fifteen down to four, tops and behind them barely stands an older gentleman, propped up by a thick tree branched fashioned into a crutch that is placed under his right armpit. Behind me, I hear Steam cracking jokes with Agrippina about putting down the family like the mangy dogs that they were and it takes everything in me to stay on point and tell the family about how I remember their sister as someone that put her all into training, despite placing a pitiful twenty-third out of twenty four.

Abel Callahan's mother stands alone on her platform, her eyes burning in an anger I can completely understand. With his boyish charm and good looks, Abel was a shoe-in to break their District's long streak of Hunger Games failures, but he himself made one fatal mistake - he put his trust in me. Together, we ran for our lives, dodging attacks from the pair from Two as made it their mission to snuff us out. In a critical moment we split up, each of us picking a direction in the bowels of the sewers, only to have our plan backfire on him.

It was never me they wanted, just the beautiful boy that threatened to steal away all of their sponsors.

During the recap of the games, they forced me to watch as the girl drove her sword through his stomach, spilling its contents. Through tears I watched as the boy stomped on his face long after his cannon sounded, his blonde curls covered in brain matter. I ran from the stage, barely holding the contents of my stomach as it spilled through my clenched fingers. Even know, I get the same taste of bile in my mouth whenever his death flashes before my eyes. I can't even imagine what it was like for her to watch her only child suffer like that.

I barely made it through Agrippina's prepared speech before it happened all over again.

Steam's laughter ran out as I made a mad dash into the Justice Center, but the crowd was thankfully silent.

* * *

The Districts that followed were a mixture of emotions.

District Eleven held no feelings for me, as I barely interacted with them. District Ten was slightly worse, mainly due to the ages of those chosen. At thirteen and fourteen, both had been the youngest tributes and some of the earliest to die. Neither of them managed a training score higher than my own and were quickly forgotten when compared to the other, more qualified tributes. By District Eight, I was barely sleeping and meals were less than a bowl of porridge and buttered toast; by Five I couldn't hide the new self-inflicted wounds that appeared on my belly and thighs. In District Four, I was assigned a female Peacekeeper to keep me from becoming the second suicide linked to the Games.

And then, Three came.

Trace Watts and Solaris Mayhew were paired up from the beginning; friends before their names were picked. Their interviews had the Capitol in tears, knowing that only one of them had the chance of making it home again. Promises were made to keep their respective family's fed if the other won, and with their brains, everyone thought they'd both find a way to make it out alive. No one was shocked when they made it to the finale ten, then surpassed the finale five...

Trace was easy to kill, his throat opening up like a wide smile as I drug my knife across his skin. He never heard me coming as he worked to turn the plates we rose up on into electrical weapons. My finale showdown with Solaris, however, was another story. We fought hard, trading blow after blow, each of us getting more than a few lucky shots in on the other as the Gamemakers locked us down in the center hub of the sewer system were had been thrust into. Through tears, Solaris managed to drive her hunting knife into my shoulder blade, but it wasn't enough to keep me from turning my own blade on her, plunging it through her stomach with one hard thrust - the twist of the blade sealing the deal.

Spending the next few hours covered in her blood is why I have a compulsion to constantly keep my skin clean.

"Do you want to know how I take the edge off of?" Steam asks, finally doing his job as my Mentor.

I refuse to move from the fetal position on the bed. "Alcohol. We all know it, we can smell it on you before you enter the room."

His laughter is hardy and he says nothing as he leaves a small blue box on the corner of my bed. Inside, I find a vial of bluish liquid and a needle. Morphling.

District Six's dirty little secret.

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, I know I didn't finish my last story...there is no reason to put your trust in me this time around. However, I want to give this another go, so here I am. For those of you that don't get it, this is a SYOT story, or Submit Your Own Tribute. I am ONLY accepting via PM (don't even bother doing it via Review). Also, I want to give everyone a chance, so for the moment, I am only doing one per person and it's not first come, first serve...I want to see what I get and go from there. Things could change in the future, so keep an eye on my Bio Page for all details on this story, as well as the Template for tributes to follow. Also, it would be awesome to see what you all think of this chapter, so drop a Review please and thank you!  
**


	2. Guardian

**To Come of Age – The 18th Annual Hunger Games**

" _It is not heroin or cocaine that makes one an addict, it is the need to escape from a harsh reality." - Shirley Anita Chisholm_

 **Valencia Argo, 19.**

 **Peacekeeper.**

 **District Six.**

With every injection, she loses a piece of herself.

They hired me to find the razors she kept hidden in her blouses, stowed away in her carry-on bags. My job was to keep her from becoming like that girl from District Eight and it was Steam that set her back. I would almost wish to find her hiding another thin line going across her arm and clean the blood from the wound, than see her with the glazed look in her eyes and needle hanging from her arm. She speaks of colors that no one else can see and her nightmares drip away.

She is losing herself.

Tomorrow is her first day as mentor and she is in shape to help bring another person home. Being as though my family is still living in District Six, I have cousins still of Reaping age that could end up with someone like her as a mentor. Without proper guidance, these kids are as good as dead. My family could be as good as dead.

And it's all thanks to Steam Douglass.

What Cori is unable to see in her colorful haze, is that I remember her from a time before she was Reaped, before she killed for entertainment. I remember her in braided pigtails and broken smile, I remember the rumors of what her father did to her. I was older, already finished with school and gearing up to be shipped to District Six, but I still noticed her. Despite all she had been through, there was still a light to her eyes that I couldn't find in anyone else, a spark that made me want to stay. Duty called, of course, and soon I she became a face in the back of my mind as I lost my identity to the Corp.

Then Agrippina called her name and helped make her the shell of a person she is now.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" I know she won't answer, not with the blue liquid now coursing through her veins. "These kids need you!"

With steady hands, I remove the tip of the needle from arm and toss it into the trash can by her bed. Her skin is almost translucent and I can't help but focus on it as I lay her down on her pillow. Come morning, she will be searching for either fix, the needle or the blade, and it will be just another repeat in my life, only with the added stress of Reaping Day.

It wasn't twenty minutes after I watched her botch her speech in District Seven that I received the call to meet Agrippina in District Four. Her cutting was getting progressively worse and the Capitol couldn't afford another suicide on their hands, not after the Adella scandal. With Cori's aversion to males touching her, Pallas thought it wise to bring in a female for the job, a female from her own District.

Before I even had a chance to do the job I was assigned, Steam entered the picture. He was sick of her belly-aching, as he so politely put it, and knew what an addiction like this does to people. After all, he would know...his father was the biggest drug peddler in the District. Never once had a needle so much as pricked him, like he told her; alcohol was his only device. Not once did he care about helping her or taking away her pain, he just wanted his hands clean of the situation that was her.

"I'm sorry Abel..."

Her voice drags me back into the real world and I find her shifting in her sleep, drenched in sweat. The drug was starting to wear off, leaving behind the painful letdown that comes after the swirling bright lights. I hold her hand, cooing to her like a newborn as her eyes twitch behind her eyelids, darting back and forth as if she was looking for someone. Soon, she settles down and I retire from her room after leaving her with a gentle kiss on the lips.

My love will get her through this.

* * *

"She is in no condition to mentor," I plead, my voice filled with more cracks than I would have liked. "Thanks to Cirrhosis of the Liver here, she's a mess."

"I'm pretty sure it was her daddy's fault that she is the mess that she is," he countered, scoffing at my insult. "All I did was give her an outlet for her issues – allegedly. Allegedly I gave her the stuff."

Around the table, many openly groaned. Across from me sat, I watched as Head Peacekeeper Verone rolled his eyes. Petrol Douglass was known for getting any and all illicit substances into his District and is rumored to be one of the masterminds behind the new drug of choice for down and out factory workers. Of course his beloved son would have readily access to anything he needs to further himself.

"Mess or not, there is nothing we can do," Verone's voice is steady, but booms over the rest of us. "Rules state that Victors are obligated to mentor, starting the year after their win, unless illness or injury keeps them from doing so-"

"Her addiction-"

"Is not what President Cross considers an event worthy of skimping on her duties as Victor," he snapped, cutting me off as I did him. "Addiction and depression are to be kept secret from the public, hence we have another District Eight incident on our hands."

Verone rises to his feet and begins walking around the table, passing Agrippina first before moving onto Pallas. "We can all speculate whom it was that gave her the Morphling to begin with-" he glares at Steam with hatred in his eyes. "-but as it wasn't forced into her veins, this is just as much her fault as it is the courier. The drug is supposed to be outlawed, but as you and I both know Valencia, people have their ways around getting it."

I swallow hard and nod. My old beat had been ripe with strung out men and women lying in alleys, including Cori's own father, Hyram Rivets. We would haul all users to the town square for a public whipping, but honestly there was little good that would come to it. Their pain will worsen, which pushes them back to the drugs, and the cycle continues until death takes them. Withdraw from the drug is said to be worse than being hit by the trains that rumble through our neighborhoods on their way to the Capitol, carrying things we could only dream of having. From what I've heard, we are the only District with this type of epidemic on our hands.

"We could wean her off," Pallas pipes up, bringing something to the table for the first time since this meeting began. "Keep the blades from her and her cutting should subside, but give her just enough Morphling to get her through these next few weeks and to keep up appearances. Steam can see to it that both tributes are looked after as we keep the Capitol from getting wind of our circumstances and try to remedy it themselves. Then, it will be a long process ahead of us."

"I will go with her to the Capitol," I promise, my voice completely broken. "It is the least I can do for my friend."

"Is _that_ what they are calling it these days?" Steam sneers, his eyes dancing. "I thought they called your type a les-"

He is silences with a well-placed right hook, knocking him clear over his chair and onto the floor. Before anyone can even register what is going on, I am on top of him and pounding his face into a bloody pulp. Strong hands that I can only assume belong to Verone pull me off of him, as all the while Steam giggles up a storm. This enrages me even more and I fight against Verone's grip to go after him again.

"STOP THIS!" Agrippina cries, effectively silencing all of us. "We are the laughing stock of all Panem! Is this what you want for Miss Rivets? Added pressure and a brain dead partner to help her mentor? You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

Adrenaline courses through my body, causing my heart to pound away in my chest. Steam stops his giggling and fixes his chair, all before taking another swig from his flask. After a few moments, the outburst is behind us and the meeting continues.

"With this animosity towards each other, it would be best if we keep you back here in District Six, Miss Argo," Pallas explains, his eyes downcast. "Between myself and Agrippina, we can keep her properly medicated and help those children."

For her sake, I pray that he's right.

* * *

 **A/N: Chapter Two down, several more to come. I wanted to save this bad boy for when we had all the tributes, but since they have been slowly coming in, I am using this to bring people back around to this story. I want to give a huge thank you to the four that have Followed my story and the Two Tributes I've gotten thus far, you all are the real MVPs. I am also lifting the rule of One Tribute Per Person and letting everyone have up to Two Tributes until I can get more people into this story. So, submit, submit, submit!**


	3. Friend

**To Come of Age - The Eighteenth Annual Hunger Games**

 _"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months." -Oscar Wilde_

 **Pallas Chino, age withheld.**

 **Head Stylist of District Six.**

 **The Capitol.**

Her hair is falling out in clumps now.

The twinkle she once had in her eyes has been gone for months, replaced instead with dull yellow haze that barely sees the person in front of them. Little remains of the girl I helped coach to greatness, broken pieces turned into victor that have returned to a more shattered state. Once the blue liquid enters her blood stream, there is no coming back for her.

Damn him for getting her hooked to this junk!

I made a vow to Valencia and the girl that sits before me that I would keep her just medicated enough to make it through these next few weeks, but the damage is done. She isn't going to make it much longer unless we can manage to pull a miracle out of thin air and, quite frankly, I am far removed from that business anymore. My designs are flopping, becoming stale and unremarkable, my team has been dismantled and replaced with newbies that I must train. It is almost as if they are trying to test me, to see what it will take to make me quit.

To test my loyalty to the Capitol in light of my current situation.

If I am to the honest with myself, I can see why they would question me. Gone is the man that dazzled the masses with my industrial style outfits, that lived for the spotlight that only my job can bring. Now there is the only person I was before the spotlight shown so heavily on me, the man that cared so deeply for others, that took care of his fellow man. The human I was before the uprisings and the Capitol's big win. Maybe it will be enough to save this poor girl, maybe it won't. All I know is that I have to try.

Coriander Rivets is counting on me.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbles, almost as if she can tell what I am thinking. "You should let me go..."

It takes everything in me not to cry; instead, I run my fingers through what remains of her hair and coo to her like you would a wee child. She rubs her cheek against my hand, tears collecting on her sunken cheeks. I wish Valencia was here; she needs her love now more than ever. Love and family, not blue liquid and a needle. Not Steam Douglass and his empty promises.

"Don't you worry, Miss Rivets," my voice as steady as I can get it. "We won't let you go that easily."

Damn President Cross for what he has done to her, to the other. Damn the Capitol for eating it up as mindless entertainment. Damn me for my involvement in all of it.

* * *

 **To Come of Age Tributes List**

 **Luxury**

 _Gemma Merlot, 18._

 _Carnelian Links, 17._

 **Masonary**

 _Nicola Anagnos, 18.  
_

 _Aleksandr Skala, 18._

 **Techology**

 _Cristina Rivas, 17.  
_

 _Cuyler Watts, 12._

 **Fishing**

 _Omayra Chass, 17.  
_

 _Leith Aberforth, 18._

 **Power**

 _Odalis di Mauro, 14.  
_

 _Tez Stenton, 12_

 **Transportation**

 _Paget Moss, 16._

 _Niall "Nye" Holt, 17._

 **Lumber**

 _Kit Varosa, 17._

 _Larenzo Carson, 15._

 **Textiles**

 _Bernice Ramsey, 18.  
_

 _Maury Vernier, 13._

 **Grain**

 _Raina Stills, 16_

 _Arjen Faraday, 15  
_

 **Livestock**

 _Prudence Ashcroft, 15.  
_

 _Terrence Roscoe, 16._

 **Agriculture**

 _Quin Thorner, 17._

 _Josiah Graff, 17._

 **Coal**

 _Ailsa Lindell, 17.  
_

 _Yorick Maines, 14._

* * *

 **A/N: Annnnnnd it's here. The tribute list and the blog, which is located on my bio. I hope you guys that subscribed to this story and/or submitted have stuck around all this, it was harder to get people to hand over tributes than I thought it would be. All of you that submitted are the real MVPs. I will attempt to update every two-three weeks, especially not that I am only working on this and my victor series, _Forgive the Children We Once Were._ So, if you guys would keep reading and reviewing, that would be lovely. Also, I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, the last one was meant to be the tribute reveal chapter and I have to toss this one together. Next comes the Reapings! YAY! If you guys would be so kind, please answer the following questions in your review.  
**

 _ **Thoughts on the tributes, based on the bio only?**_

 _ **Any early thoughts on whom you would cast a the victor?**_

 **Remember to favorite and/or follow this for all updates so you don't miss what happens next. Until next time...courage.  
**


	4. Reapings

**To Come of Age - The 18th Annual Hunger Games**

 _"So young so wise, they say, do never live long." -William Shakespear_

 **The Reapings**

* * *

 **District One - Luxury**

 _ **Allegra Rhodes - Winner of the 11th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 15**_

 _ **Current Age: 22**_

* * *

Seven years have past since I rose up that pipe and into those tall glades, seven years since I pitted my allies against each other to further my own goal of going home, seven years since I stabbed one in the back as he asked me why?. Seven years and these people still spit and hiss as I walk to market to spend my Victor's winnings on eggs and jewelry plucked from our mines. After all this time, they still have me pegged as a villainess, a monster that scares their children as they cuddle up in their little beds and after all this time, I still couldn't give a damn.

Their words and actions will remain meaningless until they, too, rise up into the depths of hell and certain death with twenty-three other children that want their lives just as badly as you do. Only then will they know what it is like to chose your life over someone else's, what it does to your very soul. I may have manipulated those boys into doing my bidding, but without them, I would have been just as dead as that girl from Nine. They had their strengths and I had mine; the only difference is I barely had to life a finger to use my weapons. Words are dagger when said right.

Even now they hiss and make one-fingered gestures at me and I just laugh them off. Today isn't about me, nor is it about themselves. It is about observing the glory of the Capitol and showing Panem why the Luxury district should never be underestimated. The Capitol smiles upon its favorite sons and daughters, especially after my controversial victory and if that will keep my tributes alive long enough to bring glory to our home, then I am fine with that.

Last year we managed to get our hands on a pair of Volunteers, willing to break the mold of what it means to be a Capitol lap dog, but it wasn't enough when pitted against the sob story that was Coriander Rivets. Girl makes me sick…

My father, Mayor Rhodes as he is called, announces me onto the stage as One's only Victor and instantly, the insults come flooding in. Of course, I just smile and wave, refusing to give them even the slightest show of weakness, kissing my daddy on the cheek before taking my seat on the stage. Good old Janus Bar, our escort since the beginning, joins us shortly thereafter, decked out in his two-toned suit and large golden glasses. The man frightened me as a small child, especially when my father would force me to sit with my brother Gaius on the side of the stage as he ran the Reaping Ceremony, but after going with him year after to the Capitol, you can see how harmless and idiotic he really is.

"Welcome, welcome my dear friends to this rather glorious event," his voice sounds as though he had sucked down a balloon, comical and inflated, just like his ego. "The oldest of you left in today's Reaping were born the very year this institution was established! How about that? Most of you conceived during the tail end of the Dark Days themselves!"

Great mental image for this children, Janus!

"Now, let us get this show underway, shall we?"

With his long legs carrying him, it is merely seconds before he is at the first Reaping Bowl and choosing the first name from the bounty within. He barely slides his slender fingers into the sea of names before he pulls them back and reads the name aloud.

"For the ladies, we have-"

He doesn't even have the chance to announce the name before a hand shouts up from the back end of the pens, making our first Volunteer eighteen. "ME! ME! I volunteer!"

A head of blonde hair makes her way out of the gaggle of girls that have swarmed her, cheering for her as she attempted to make her way towards the front. I know her name before she even bothers to say it to the district with pride. Gemma Merlot, the daughter of Ivin Merlot and heir to the family's Panem-renowned winery. They are so deep in the Capitol's pockets that they could be considered honorary citizens and members of President Cross' cabinet, what is she doing Volunteering? A dig at daddy, perchance? That is something I can honestly get behind, seeing as how my own father is a pompous ass most of the time.

"Gemma Merlot and I am here to win!"

"Of course you are, sweet child," his voice drips with sugar and I can't help but gag. "Now, for the boys. Can we manage two Volunteers?"

A boy stumbles out of the seventeen year old section before Janus can even pick a name, and I do mean stumbles. All cameras turn to him as I regains his footing and stretches his arm up to the clear sky above him.

"Carnelian Links, sir! I volunteer!"

Janus pouts, obviously upset over not being able to do the job he lives for. "Yes, very well, come on with it, Mr. Links!"

While his face may not ring any bells, his name does. The Links family is well known for their lofty connects within the Capitol, thanks to coming from a long line of goods importers. Perla Links, the head of the Links Family as well as their company, must be booming with pride over her only son's entry into something as glorious as the Games. When many others turned on the Capitol, biting the hand that fed them so to speak, the Links stayed loyal and were awarded handsomely for that loyalty. His entry into the games will be well pair shake hands in a show of solidarity, same as I did with my own partner. How long that partnership lasts will be up to them, but I know this for sure.

My money is on the girl.

* * *

 **District Two - Masonary**

 _ **Pius Bastille - Winner of the 9th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 17**_

 _ **Current Age: 26**_

* * *

Father would have been pleased with the turnout today. Decked out in their matching leather jackets, beaming with pride over Reaping Day, my trainees stood stoic in the background of the pens, all the more willing to Volunteer for the pride of the District or die trying. Part of me wishes he could see this, to enjoy what he started and marvel at how I perfected it, but the other part of me is reminded of the scars that will never heal and bruises that never truly faded; forever reminding me of the cost of his acceptance and love. What he beat and tormented out of my siblings and I, I was able to coach into these kids and make them better than we ever were.

Regardless of what Father said, I made the Bastille Training Center what it is today.

Our first year open saw our first trained Victor in the form of Atticus Winder, the dark-haired son of a stonemason with a keen eye for archery. His big win is what lead more children from all walks of life to pour in, ready and willing to be taught in the chance that they are chosen. Despite our bet efforts, no others have come back since him, but we are looking to change that today. I've got a good feeling about this year.

Standing proud with his brothers in arms is the next winner of the Hunger Games and the continuation of my work.

"We've got a live one this year boss," Atticus piped up, eyeing up the hulking blonde standing out amongst the tributes. "Gregor Belmont is a beast on the field."

I nod in response, never taking my eyes off the boy, even as our escort makes it difficult.

With his flamboyant statue and bright clothes, Marcellus Burrows tends to keep your attention for his entirety on the stage. Even now, he is prancing about the stage in his rainbow pantsuit and multicolored mohawk, praising our wins as though he was the one fighting for his life in the arena, murdering others for his own survival. He makes me sick, if I'm to be honest, but I know he is really harmless. All he is is another face of the Capitol, another reminder of who we should all really be fighting.

Still want to deck the guy regardless.

"Last year we announced the boy last year and that didn't seem to go well for us," he reminds us all as he sneaks a harsh glance back at me. "So let's go with the ladies first this year."

With the swish of his wrist, we have our name. "NICOLA ANAGNOS!"

Anagnos? The name was one that brought about a mix reaction from our district, all depending on whom you asked. Some saw them as opportunists, capitalizing on the plight around them and going with the winning side. Most, like myself, saw them as traitors, pocketing money on the backs of the dead. Either way, the Anagnos name will come with a price and I have to pity the girl, as I doubt this has anything to do with her. Much like myself, she was thrust into something that had nothing to do with her.

To her credit, she holds herself together, only bawling up her fists as she walks out of the furthest pen, her head held high. People whisper and gawk, some even giggle, but for the most part, the crowd is respectful as she marches towards what could be considered her death. Once onstage, I am given a better look at her; lanky and tall, her skin marred with bruises and her lip is busted. Womanly, this girl is not. She is a fighter, that's for certain, and my kinda of gal.

"I'll take the girl," I whisper to Atticus, who barely seems to be paying attention. "She is going to be a dark horse in this race."

He nods, not taking his eyes from Marcellus, who has move onto the male section after out-right ignoring Nicola. Another quick swish reveals the name of the boy our Gregor will be saving. "HOLLIS CRATER!"

To his credit, the boy the name belonged to didn't even bother to step forward; instead, he stands in the fifteen year old section with his hands crossed, waiting for our pick to make his way from the back. And make an entrance he does, storming from the back with his head held high, unable to see the frozen white hair of the boy coming at him, tripping him hard to the ground before he can make his way past the furthest pen.

It happens so quickly; one minute, Gregor's large frame slams his way out of his spot, charging up the center isle before he is a victim of a sneak attack by some seemingly delicate boy with perfect skin and the whitest hair I have ever seen in person. After taking out the competition, he casually skips to the stage, making sure to shake the hands of the boy who's name was called, acting concerned for the lad as he makes his way towards us. Atticus looks as though he might kill the boy before we even reach the Capitol, but he seems to have gotten the crowd whipped into a frenzy.

"I am Aleksandr Skala and could not _bear_ the fact that a person I know from school could be headed towards a certain death!"

Something tells me he didn't know that kid even moments before his name was called.

Gregor, in the meantime, has managed to get himself back up and starts plowing through Peacekeepers to get towards the stage. "This isn't over, you little pipsqueak! This was my time to shine, not yours! I'll make sure you never make it out of that arena alive!"

And, just like that, District Two is reduced to a sideshow freak exhibit. On one side, we have the busted up, brute of a girl and on the other, a grinning, beautiful boy with an affliction for violence. We sure do have our work cut out for us this year.

* * *

 **District Three -Technology  
**

 _ **Decimal Danvers - Winner of the 10th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 14**_

 _ **Current Age: 22**_

* * *

Smog.

It's all our district is known for. That, and my victory eight years ago. We create and build the technology the Capitol craves, but other than that, we are overlooked. Year after year, our tributes barely make a blip on the radar, outside of my surprising win. And even then, people tend to forget I was ever a Victor. At one point in time, that would have bothered me, but now I am willing to sink into the background that helped cement my win in the first place. All I need is my quiet place and my fiance, and I will get through all of this.

That, and a victor to share these duties with.

There was a strange hum over the crowd, significantly different from the usual thickness that seems to permeate throughout the District. It differs from the hum of the factories, making it even more noticeable, as the buildings surrounding the town square are silent as to not interfere with the feed transmitting towards the Capitol and the rest of Panem. No, this is a sign...a sign of things to come. A change in the air, almost.

This year could very well be our year.

Regulus Nova, a usually rather melancholy man, seemed almost droll in appearance today, retiring his Gothic attire for a brighter, jewel-encrusted ensemble that went so against his nature that it baffled everyone. Even his voice, once so slow that it put kids to sleep in their spots, had more of a bounce to it. Everything about this day was seeming more off with every passing moment.

"District Three! Please, enjoy this video all the way from the Capitol!"

In the crowd, I spot my fiance, smiling encouragingly and giving me a thumbs up from his spot in the crowd. Lancel's love and support have gotten me through these past eight years, even thought he should hate me. After all, it was I that came home and not his Reaped brother, Keir. Even as I sit here with my swollen belly, I can't help but ponder over the fate of Keir and myself. Why am I here instead of him? Is that why I have yet to bring home another Victor?

A kick from in the inside of my stomach brings me back to reality and the image of Regulus picking the next name.

"CRISTINA RIVAS! Come on down here, dear girl!"

A whole opens up towards the back, showing a distraught girl with olive skin, standing alone as those around here whisper and gawk. The name strikes a cord with all of those in the crowd, most especially on the stage. Regulus stutters, pointing at the Mayor Rivas as she drops to the ground, sobbing for the daughter who beings to descend on the stage, her face absent of emotion. The girl holds it together rather well, giving herself a better chance with the sponsors than her mother is giving her by acting like this. Cold, yes, but I am all about the truth. Once on stage, the girl goes right to her mother and helps her up, promising her that she would see her again in just a few weeks. The crowd is silent, the hum gone.

Why must I always be right about these things?

Regulus froze for a moment, taking in the scene that he, himself, created, then moves on, quickly grabbing another name to break the tension. "CUYLER WATTS!"

A circle appears in the first pen, closest to the stage, and my breath catches in my throat. Two boys stand still, one with the ghost of a laugh on his face and the other with tears streaming down his face. Friends, ripped apart by the Capitol. Peacekeepers make their way through the crowd, shoving aside child after child, before gripping a still stunned Cuyler by the scruff of his neck and dumping him on the stage. Never once does he cry, never once does the look of amusement leave his lips; I can't help but favor the small, dark-skinned child. He will need all the help he can get.

The same Peacekeepers that once drug the small boy on stage went after the girl, ripping her apart from the mother that loved her dearly and I can't help but feel another lump in my throat. When my name was called, so few people seemed effected by my plight, outside of my mother. The girl has a mother breaking down for her, as well as a boy calling her name from the outside, while the boy has his dear friend sobbing with such force that I find myself crying as well.

Damn hormones.

There is no way I can bring both home, but maybe with the same luck that got me through my own games, I can get at least one. No one expected much from me, but with proper guidance, I can mold at least one of these kids into the next District Three victor. At least one of them can live.

Now, to figure out which one can come home...

* * *

 **District Four - Fishing  
**

 ** _Magdelyn "Mags" Calhoun - Winner of the 12th Annual Hunger Games_**

 ** _Age of Victory: 16_**

 ** _Current Age: 22_**

* * *

One of the few beauties in life here in District Four is the smell of the sea; the salt, the nostalgia, it engulfs you, reminding you that no matter what happens, you are here, you are alive. It was the thing I missed the most when I was Reaped, besides the freedom that came from riding the waves. Even now, I can hear them crashing against the burning sand, calling out to me with each break. A grim reminder of what I am losing during my time in the arena, and every year since. Six years later and I have yet to get used to it.

"How are you today, Miss Calhoun?" Her voice lacks the usual Capitol shrill and is rather soft, almost blanket like. "Beautiful out today, am I right?"

I nod slightly and grin. "Yes, Sakia, but please, call me Mags. Miss Calhoun makes me feel older than I am."

Unlike most Capitol escorts, Sakia Flutes is rather mild in appearance. Her hair is filled with tight, bouncing curls, the color of wet sand and her eyes as green as the sea. She is not much older than myself, barely twenty-five, and her voice lacks any trace of a Capitol accent. If one didn't know better, you would think she was one of us; an average woman from Four with a Fisherman husband and job at a canning company, maybe a kid or two running around. I could even see her being Reaped and coming out alive, just as I was. Maybe then, I wouldn't be so alone on this stage.

I wasn't the first Victor from Four, but people seem to think I am. Their memories are short and forget the boy that won just eight years before I did, how he was Reaped along side the girl he loved so much. Us kids from the home remember, especially since he was one of us and I knew Wake quite well. Not a single one of us would ever forget the day he disappeared, nor the money he left behind to help the home get out of the financial hole it was collapsing into. No one wanted to help fund a home for abandoned and orphaned kids, not with more pressing matters at hand, like rebuilding after the Dark Days. He wanted to give back while he still could, same as I am trying to do. Without the Capitol's knowledge, I use my money to fund those same homes, making sure no child ever goes hungry again.

It's the very least I can do with my time and money.

Out in the crowd, I see a mixture of faces; some fearful and worried, some brazen and self-assured. Unlike District Two and the rumors of their training facilities, we have only had a small amount of volunteers, mostly due to older tributes saving younger ones. Only once, two years ago, did we have a girl volunteer on her own terms, going in with her head held high and a trident in hand.

She lasted eleven days.

Now we sit here, watching a video praising the Capitol and their supposed mercy doled out to the remaining districts, wondering who will be the next to go. Will in be the large boy in the back, with bronze hair and a wide smile? The scrawny girl in the front row, silently willing herself to be anywhere else in the world but here? Just like the year I was taken, things very rarely change. Same boring process, same wicked outcome.

Before long, Sakia is up at her spot, ready to do the duty that keeps her awake at night. She switches things up this time, going for the boys first, rather than the girls. "Our male tribute this year is...LEITH ABERFORTH!"

A loud 'whooping' noise is heard from the back, indicating that Leith seemed proud of his tribute status. He quickly emerges from the crowd, slapping the hands of all that he could, even going as far as to hug a few before launching his way up onto the stage and swiping the microphone from Sakia. His bravado is showing, that much is certain, as well as his muscles and good looks. This boy will be an easy sell to the Capitol, with his dark hair and obvious charm, but I can tell already that he is lacking something upstairs. He's going to be a handful, I know it.

"Thank you, District Four! I am more than happy to represent you in the next Hunger Games and I-"

"Leith Aberforth, thank you," her voice is so deadpan that I can't help but laugh. "Now, for the ladies...AZURA K-"

A hand shoots up from the seventeen year old section and a shrill voice rings out. "I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

The same scrawny, sad little girl in the front looks relieved, almost as if that was her name spared from the Capitol's wrath, as a girl with curls just as bouncy as Sakia's, only darker, makes her way forward. Unlike her male counterpart, she gracefully asks for the microphone and announces herself as Omayra Chass, a girl I recognize as being the daughter of a local Peacekeeper, one of the ones stuck over from the Dark Days. In the distance, I can see his face turning red with anger, as if he hadn't a clue that his beloved daughter was doing this...

...same as he did, two years ago, when he oldest daughter did the same exact thing. Ophelia Chass, eighteen, mowed down by kid from the Livestock District, before he himself, was killed. This girl is the younger sister, vowing revenge for her big sister. She's an easier sell than Leith, that much is for certain, but will she be a team player? Will her anger and bitterness get the best of her? Even now, I can see the wheels turning in her head as she shakes his hand, tightening her grip as he attempts to flirt with her.

"I can see the wheels turning, Miss Calhoun," Sakia whispers, her smile inviting. "What are you thinking?"

"That I might not be doing this alone for much longer," I answer softly, watching as the pair seems to wear out each others welcome. "As long as I can get them on the same page."

The year I won saw a bonding of Districts One, Two, and Four...maybe if I can get them to band together again, one of them will have a chance.

* * *

 **District Five - Power  
**

 _ **Boothe Powers - Winner of the 7th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 16  
**_

 _ **Current Age: 27**_

* * *

My district doesn't trust me anymore.

It's not as if I can blame them, if I am to be honest with myself. I wouldn't trust me, either. What they see is a traitor, the enemy, a murderer of their children, but much like most things in life, it is a bit more complex than that and sometimes, I think that they are right. However, there are layers that they don't see, that they _can't_ see, not if they want to live. What I do is for the people I love, so that they don't end up the way of my mother and brother.

I do it for my District.

They never tell me how my inventions are going to be used, _if_ they are going to be used at all. Also, I am sworn to secrecy and any inkling that I breathed a word of what I have created with end with the deaths of those around me. Never will they kill me, as they need me for my brain, and a guard is kept on me at all times to keep me from killing myself. Three attempts down and they have yet to fail in bringing me back. If they could take my brain and dispose of my body, I know that they would. Anything to keep my weapons going into the arena and into storage, to be used on the day an uprising comes along. Not that I can see anything like that happening in the near future, our nation is too beaten down from the last time. Even now, I can see that beaten down look on the faces of the children before me. They all beg for a hero to save them, the bring Panem back to the way it once was, long before most of us were born, but there is nothing a guy like me can do.

"KILLER!"

A woman spits in my general direction and it's a face I recognize; the mother of Lindy Bishop, the girl that went into the arena with me. Every year she stops me on my day to the Town Center, every year she spits at me, blames me for her daughter's death. Funnily enough, it was my alliance member, Pallas, that took her out and yet, she still blames me for the death of her only child.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bishop," I call after her, refusing to even raise my voice in malice. "See you next year."

I can't even bring myself to hate the woman. Everyone needs someone to blame for the death of their children and I guess that is just my lot in life. It is easier to blame me, a local face associated with the Games, rather than go after the sleeping dragon that is The Capitol. Instead of blaming President Cross for the deaths of my fellow tributes, I only blame myself for the death of my first and only friend in this world.

I just long to kiss his lips just one last time.

"You're late again, Boothe." Peacekeeper Ezra greets me with a mockingly stern look, before playfully punching me on the arm. "Better get up there before Alba notices and raises hell...again."

Of all the Peacekeepers assigned to keep me alive, Ezra is the only one I like. He reminds me of Pallas a lot; dark-haired, strong, great sense of humor. It was Ezra that found me during my last attempt and I remember his lips pressed to mine as he breathed new life into me. We've kept our relationship a secret ever since and I have vowed a strict promise to never do something that stupid again. Even now, I sneak a few glances his way from the stage, almost laughing out loud at the faces he makes in my direction as Alba Cartias does her thing on stage, which is boring the masses, despite wearing loud clothing that only a person with a personality can pull off.

Even now, Alba is doing things the complete ass backwards way, drawing one name from each bowl, rather than getting one at a time and announcing it. She does this every year, making it hard for each tribute to make a stand out appearance to potential sponsors. This has lead to many of my tributes being lumped together, whether they liked it or not, and most times, lead to their early deaths. This has been going on since she joined us during the tenth games and despite several years of me telling her this wasn't helping the tributes, she goes and does it anyway.

Idiot.

"Peacekeepers, please bring down...TEZ STENTON and ODALIS DI MAURO!"

Movement comes from the closer pens, which is never a good sign. Younger tributes mean they are less likely to make it back home and once again, it will be my fault. A small boy emerges from the twelve year old pens, his skin ashen and dirty, his body language that of being at a strange ease - almost as if he has already accepted his fate. It pains me to see him walk up on stage, knowing full well that he is never coming back. It hurts even more to see how almost satisfied he is with being Reaped.

The girl is another story all together. You can tell she is terrified, unwilling to accept where her life is now headed, but she is still holding it together, holding back the tears that threaten to fall. She wants desperately to hold it together for her family, so she silently makes her way towards the stage, her head trained to the ground as she lets her feet take her towards death. She isn't quite as dark as Tez, but still has an almost olive complexion, like one you would see in District Twelve, but she is tall, standing a good head over the boy Reaped along side her. Or, she could, if she just stood up straight, instead of walking around as though she has a hunch on her back. Scabs line her arms and both children are littered with scars.

This is going to be a rough year for District Five, I can tell.

"Shake hands, the both of you." Neither one moves, but I swear I hear something along the lines of "pinche idiota" and I can't help but smile. "...District Five, these are your tributes, unless any of you want to volunteer to do a better job?"

No one moves.

This is it, District Five.

I am coming home alone.

* * *

 **District Six - Transportation  
**

 _ **Steam Douglass - Winner of the 3rd Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 17**_

 _ **Current Age: 32**_

* * *

Coriander Rivets.

They vilify me for pacifying the girl, giving her the easy way out. What they refuse to see for themselves is, I did her a service. She came from addicts and abusers; her mother died of an overdose, her father an alcoholic that confused her for the woman he lost to the needle. She had her own demons to fight, demons to silence, demons that could be taken away with a simple plunge of the syringe. Same as her whore mother, who slept with my father to get her next fix, she begged to forget the world around her and all I did was give her a way out. Is that really a crime?

She would have found herself there anyway.

Now she sits, medicated to the point of almost drooling, propped up on stage like a marionette doll abandoned by its puppeteer. Valencia sits beside her, getting as much petting time as she can before she is forced to let her little love puppy go. It's pathetic, honestly. It makes me sick to my stomach, seeing all of this lovey dovey bullshit. Valencia doesn't care for the girl, she cares for the Victor the girl has become. I see it all the time in the women and girls that throw themselves at my feet. They are in love with the wealth and power that comes with winning the games, finding the murders that happened at my hands attractive as hell. It disgusts me. I would never lower myself by being with a lady of this appalling district.

I will stick with the wives of Gamemakers and aristocratic ladies with too much free time on their hands, thank you.

Not a single victor has embraced their status quite like I have. Some couldn't tough it out, like that girl from the first games and that boy from Four, while others have simply fallen apart, like Cori here and that drunkard from Nine, Summer...Sourpatch, something like that. If anyone is going to drown in their own vomit one day soon, it is that girl. All because she lost the boy she loved in an earlier game. Spare me! Her games last hours, maybe a day. The rest of us had to fight for our victory, get our hands dirty while trying to eat and find shelter and she is the one that got off without damaging her soul.

Bitch.

As Agrippina struts onto the stage, taking the attention off of myself for just a moment, I reach for my hide-a-flask that I keep strapped to my ankle at all times and take a swig. The bitter, clear substance burns on the way down, leaving it an almost acidic waste, but I can't help but fall in love with it all over again. It hurts, for the love of Panem does it ache. The pain reminds me that I am still alive, still kicking it while those other twenty-three bastards are lying in the ground. Valencia huffs, showing her lack of approval of how I handle myself, but until she is in our shoes, she has no right to tell us what we can and cannot do to keep the visions at bay.

People say that I am a heartless bastard, one that gets his jollies off on making everyone around me even more miserable than I am, and it's absolutely true. I will be the first person to admit that; I am a dick, a murderer, and a bully. What they don't know is that my drug dealer father beat me almost every day of my life until I was big enough to fight back. The other kids picked on me, laughed at the bruises he left, pushed me around...to them, I was just another District Six weird kid. They unleashed something inside of me, they brought out a guy no longer willing to be anyone's victim. It was that guy that made it through the games, it was that brought home their precious Coriander.

It was I that got her to stop her damn weeping.

Almost on cue, she makes a sound like a crying puppy and her little girlfriend is on the move, making sure she's ok. Agrippina halts her speech for just a second, checking on the princess before going back to entertaining the masses. They baby the girl, then wonder why she is acting the way that she is. It disgusts me, honestly. How else is she going to toughen up?

"Get a move on, toots!" I sneer, taking another swig. "We aren't getting any younger."

The crowd hisses, but I couldn't care less.

"Anyway, your female tribute for this year is...PAGET MOSS! Come on down, sweetheart!"

A shrill cry hits the air, coming from the middle of the female section. The girl it comes from is a looker, that much is certain, and seems less broken than the one sitting next to me. However, she is shaking like a leaf the whole time, barely able to make it out of the pen before collapsing to the ground. You would almost feel sorry for her, if you didn't realize how much she was hurting herself and her chances by acting like a complete ass in front of the whole nation. At least she is beautiful and that, in itself, is a plus. And if she has a hidden talent stuffed away in that tight little body of hers, well, maybe she can pull an underdog move like my last tribute and surprise us all. A Peacekeeper is quickly dispatched to pick her up and dump her onto the stage, where Agrippina goes right to her, fixing her skirt before she shows us any of her good parts.

"Yes, Miss Moss everyone," her voice breaks, making her accent go through me even more. "Do we have any volunteers for the young lady?"

Ha! Not a chance.

"Sorry, my dear," she whispers to the girl, attempting to calm the poor girl down. "And now for the boys...NIALL HOLT!"

A whole opens up in the seventeen year old section, producing a brunette boy with an almost bowl-like cut. Where his partner is flaky and meek, he seems like a fighter, getting openly pissed off over his fate. He challenges it the only way he can, walking slowly towards the stage with clenched fists and his emotions spread across his face as though they were painted on. The curses he believes he are just mumbling grow louder and louder until I can fully make them out without trying, making me like the lad even more. Hand I not already decided on taking the male tribute over the girl, I would fight the morphling for control of the boy's sponsors.

This one is coming back.

"District Six, these are your tributes! Let the Eighteen Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

 **A/N - I've said it before, but it bears repeating...I hate Reapings. I really do. That's why I am breaking it in half and doing the first six as Reapings, the last six as Train Rides. It just gives it a little more...I dunno. Makes it less redundant. Whatever. I am tired. :D Here's a few questions I'd love to see you guys answer when you review. If you don't, don't sweat it.**

 _ **Which tribute(s) stood out to you the most?**_

 _ **Which victor(s) stood out to you the most?**_

 _ **How are you doing?**_

 **Expect the second half with the train ride soon. I want to try to plow through the boring Capitol stuff so we can get to the fun part...killing everyone! Yay!  
**

 **Also, don't forget to go to the blog I have set up for this story. To Come of Age HG . blogspot . com (just eliminate the spaces) It's also on my bio page.**


	5. Rides

**To Come of Age – The 18th Annual Hunger Games**

" _Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow." -Anita Desai_

 **The Train Rides**

* * *

 **District Seven – Lumber**

 _ **Tirzah Rafferty – Winner of the 14th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 18**_

 _ **Current Age: 22**_

* * *

Our first ever Volunteer.

The girl is nothing special; a looker, I guess, but otherwise not someone you would write home about. Her reason for even being here is so...boring...that it makes me want to punch her in the face. At her age, I was pleading with anything in the sky that would listen to me not to take me into the games, that my family had suffered enough, that it just wasn't fair to keep picking on Rafferty children. Now here we have someone making the effort to go into the games, to be slaughtered by other children or to take the lives of others, it's disgusting.

Vick Darwin, our sleazebag escort was all over her from the word go, literally pushing our male tribute, a confused looking boy all of fifteen to the ground to get at her. Even now, over an hour later, and he was still licking his lips and playfully tossing her long, dark locks behind her shoulder, sliding his fingertips down her face whenever he could think of a reason to get away with it. I almost vomit, remembering how he once did the same to me, whispering in my ear about how he missed having my brothers as his tributes and how much I reminded him of them. Unlike my brothers, both young and impressionable after all we had seen in life, I wasn't like them and I bent his fingers to the point that at least one of them broke and told him I would do worse if he ever came at me like that again.

I had no choice a year later, when he paid good money to have me.

"Do either of you have any clue as to what goes on after the Reaping?" Espien's voice is still as sing-songy as ever, just as annoying at the days when I was in their shoes. "Larenzo?"

The boy perked up at the mention of his name, but doesn't answer; instead, he just opens his mouth as if to speak, before changing his mind. There isn't much going on upstairs in that boy's head, that much I can tell.

"Training, before you are sent off to your death," I answer for him, much to the disdain of my partner. "What, it's not like it's not true?"

She ignores me, as usual, before coddling the boy that most likely won't make it out of the Bloodbath. "Do you have any special skills, something that could be of use? Even if you don't think it's important, it just might come into play in the games. Like me, I thought I was doomed from the start until I saw those trees. My climbing skills got me out of there."

The boy, dead behind the eyes, just stares ahead and I can't help but snicker.

"Should we be putting our strengths out in the open like this?" the Volunteer speaks finally, making a valid point. "We don't even know if we are going to be allies yet?"

"Excellent point, deary, just perfect," Vick coos, stroking her cheek once again, making me want to vomit. "Shouldn't we be training them separately?"

 _Stay out of it, you damn predator._

"That is up to them," Espien shrugs, looking down at the pair, who just stare at each other, waiting for the other to answer for them. "What do you think?"

The silence is awkward and thick, strangling me as I gawk at another pair that I doubt I will see again come next week.

"My mother is a botanist," Volunteer chimes in, desperate to break the tension. "I wanted to learn so much from her and use it to help the needy."

Espien's eyes widen, "Good, good. That works. If you know what you are doing with said plants, you can harm or help those around you."

The wheels begin to turn in her head and more flies out of her mouth. "Healing my allies may come in handy down the road, helping is all I wanted to do."

At that, I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, good Samaritan and all. A whole mess of good you'll do yourself in there, once everyone comes at you with swords and spears. I'll make sure they etch _"_ _Helped All"_ into your damn tombstone."

"TIRZAH!"

"What?"

"My dad ran a small shop in town," Larenzo pipes up, still staring off into space. "Mom ran out a few years ago, so it's just us now. He taught me to throw hatchets."

I take another look at the fragile boy; lanky and dense, with longer hair than most boys around our district and a soft smile that can be easily taken advantage of and I can't possibly see him throwing hatchets around like some short of lumberjack. Nothing about this kid screams fighter, if anything, I see him giving up in the opening minutes and letting some brute from Two bash his skull in. If I was the type of person that gave a shit, I would feel sorry for him. Hell, I'm actually rooting for the world-saving do-gooder over this lump of clay.

"That's wonderful, Larenzo," Vick coos, attempting to show that he isn't, in fact, biased. "What type of store is it? Weapons of the lumber trade?"

He looks at his feet and mumbles under his breath. "Figurine store."

Laughter bursts out of me, like water busting over a dam and destroying his confidence like a village in the runoff. "Yeah, that's going to help. He's all yours, cupcake." I pat Espien on the shoulders and point at the girl. "Volunteer, you're mine. I'm going to make a victor our of you, just you wait."

"My name is Kit-"

"Get used to hearing Volunteer," I warn her, as I pull her up to her feet. "Do you think anyone remembers the name of that kid from Ten that Volunteered a few years back? No, they remembered the selfless, idiotic thing that he did and call him out for it accordingly. No, Miss Volunteer...this will define you for the rest of your life."

She nods, knowing I am right. Next to her, Lorenzo sinks further into his seat, attempting to hide away from his fate and for a brief moment, I feel a pang of guilt. Of course, it's gone just as quickly as it sets in.

No one showed me pity when they called the last Rafferty child up to the stage, believing her to be the end of her family's line. Why should I give a damn about any of them?

* * *

 **District Eight – Textiles**

 _ **Woof Sorrell – Winner of the 16th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 15**_

 _ **Current Age: 17**_

* * *

The girl is older than I am, bigger than me as well. She sits across from us, her arms folded across her chest, clearly over the shocked stage of being Reaped and quickly moving onto the anger phase. I can't blame her, honestly, two years ago I was her.

Or, at least I _think_ I was.

From the recorded coverage they've shown to help mend my mind, my arena was a mountain terrain, rocky and steep, ready to gobble up even the best of us. Boulders were used as weapons, splattering the brains of those unfit to run, unable to get flee with only their lives. Somehow I was able to get away, dodging stone projectiles and hulking tributes attempting to make me just another victim of the Bloodbath, grabbing just a small bag before taking a trail up into the mountains. A short time later, two people would be dead at my hands and I came home a Victor with little memory of what happened. Some called me one of the lucky ones, and I guess in a way that's true, but it doesn't keep the nightmares away, it doesn't make what I've done any easier to live with.

You should never forget your first murder.

I sighed before going back to my notes, written neatly by Titania Marlowe, giving them a good glance over before I speak. _Girl, Bernice Ramsey. Strong-willed, held together. Possible top ten placement. Boy, Maury Vernier. Too small to get far, bloodbath candidate. Speaks words that make little sense, could be slow._ She said similar things about the pair last year, claiming that the boy would make it far, while the girl wasn't worth spending sponsorship money on. Of course, she was right; the boy made it to the bottom six, while the girl, a child I knew from the neighborhood, perished in the opening moments. Then again, she was certain I wouldn't make it two days…

The boy twitched in his seat, muttering something barely audible and most certainly not a language I had ever heard before. It is only after Titania hands the poor kid a cup of hot chocolate that he says something that sounds remotely recognizable and that's _mercy._ Mercy? Something is definitely up with this kid, but at least we found something that he likes.

"So, do you have any advice at all for us?" the girl, (I recheck my cards for her name) Bernice asks, refusing to make eye contact. "I mean, there has to be something you remember from your time in the arena"

My head injury and subsequent memory issues are not completely unknown to the public, but it isn't something I like advertising to everyone. However, it became very apparent that there was something off about me after my last interview with Gaius Flickerman and the old neighborhood became wise after noticing my note cards that I keep on myself at all times.

The side effects of my time in the arena.

I riffle through my cards before coming across one labeled _Advice_ and read from it. "The Cornucopia is both your friend and enemy. Leaving at the sound of the buzzer could spare your life, as it did mine, but without a bag and no food or weapon, the battle to stay alive will be fierce. However, going into the eye of the storm is just as deadly, but with a better pay off."

Bernice blinks, almost as if she expected something better from me. "That's it? No inkling of what we can look forward to in the arena, any insider knowledge?"

At the bottom of the card, I notice a little arrow, indicating to turn it over. "Finding water and shelter should be your first priority once getting away from the Cornucopia. Use what you learned in training and you will go far."

"You sound robotic," she mumbles, taking a sip of her drink. "Like it didn't come from you."

"Well, I-"

"It's a shame our other mentor is already dead, or I'd ask her to train me," her words sting, hitting my chest harder than any wound I felt during my time in the rocky mountains. "You are useless."

With that, she storms off into the sleeping compartment, slamming a door behind her. The boy, confused and scared, recoils back, nearly spilling his hot drink onto his chest. Titania smirks, clearly loving the spunky attitude of our female tribute, before sitting next to Maury and turning on the Reapings.

"You sure do have a way with the kids," Titania laughed, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "The girl will come around, as you all do. She is just upset over her lot in life and is taking it out on the person she feels she can; you. Besides, the boy last year said far worse to you, if memory serves."

A quick peek at my cards brings the memory of Satchel Walker roaring back. Big guy, twice my size, and older than I am now, he seemed like the person to back and boy did they. No one expected the Careers to drop so early, nor did they expect the finale to include a frail girl from Six and a pair from Three. No, they wanted Satchel to win and for once, the Capitol did not get their way.

"It isn't like what she said isn't true," she continued, taking the cup off the boy and stealing a sip. "With your injury, it would seem that you have become useless to these children."

Tell me how you really feel, Titania.

"Excusez-moi?" His voice is timid and somehow smaller than he is. "Je ne comprends pas."

His large eyes brim with tears and I realize just how much of a struggle I am going to have with him. The kid isn't slow; at least, it doesn't seem that way. There is just a language barrier that we are going to have to get past, if he is to make it far.

"Excuse me?" I ask, putting my cards aside, "Is that what you said?"

"Je ne comprends pas!"

"What language are you speaking, kid?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it quickly, deciding to shrug his shoulders at me instead. There isn't much to him, I notice, he's just a typical, scrawny kid, slightly younger than I was when I won. His Reaping made him stand out, as he seemed to misunderstand the purpose of the Reaping, despite this being his second year, and screaming about something or some place called Avarris. It might just be enough to put somewhat of a spotlight on him.

Now, if I can wheel in his older counterpart and I'll have a chance at bringing someone home.

* * *

 **District Nine – Grain**

 _ **Savannah Cambridge – Winner of the 6th Annual Hunger Games**_

 _ **Age of Victory: 18**_

 _ **Current Age: 30**_

* * *

The dark liquor slides down the back of my throat, burning as it travels down my esophagus and into my stomach, mixing with the eggs our Avox was nice enough to make. Anton doesn't both to chastise me about my drinking anymore, he knows not to waste his breath anymore. It's an unspoken rule between us; I don't bring up the men he brings back into his room and he doesn't bother me about the amount of alcohol that seeps into my system every night.

What Anton doesn't know is that my father was a drunk himself, blowing the money that should have been used to put food on the table, getting himself all liquored up just to get through the day. He drank to forget my mother, the woman that left the two of us behind when I was barely seven years old, he drank to forget his job as a crop duster, to forget me. My face reminded him of my mother and for that, it was constantly slapped when he was too far gone. Sometimes it was kissed, when he was even further gone...

I drink to forget my District Partner's bloated body as a maniac use it to stay afloat, the horrified look on ally's face as I stood over the body of our other ally and the sounds of her screams as she was slowly killed by cave bats. To forget the darkness that started it all, the frenzy that left my ally dead at my hands. To forget my father and all he had done to me.

Mostly I drink to forget Noeah's final hours in the arena and the little of him that returned.

No other man has touched me since Noeah, outside of those that found me desirable in the Capitol. I refuse to allow myself peace, as he was not given that in life. Without him, I am nothing and the bottom of the bottle reminds me of that.

Not a single one of my tributes have made it past the halfway mark since I won. That could be my fault, as I am not much of a mentor, but mostly it was the lack of fight in my tributes. District Nine isn't know for being loyal to the Capitol or breading Victors, nor is it known for being oppressed or filled with starving children. We are laid back people of the land, spending our time after a long day in the field with family, be it biological or our relations met at the local pub. Yes, we learn to weld sickles at a young age, but there is a difference between taking down the stalks of grain and taking another person's life.

That is a lesson every Victor must learn.

My tributes this year are another pair of run-of-the-mill Nine kids. Arjen Faraday, the tan skinned boy, continues to look at me as if I have the answers that will bring him back home to the family that needs him so desperately, while the girl, a sweet girl named Raina Stills pushes her food around her plate, seeming to have given up already. Neither seem like fighters, but, then again, neither was I. My win was built on the back of Noaeh's demise and the sympathies of the Capitol elite.

Is that something we can replicate?

"Do you usually drink this heavily when others' lives are in your hands?" The boy finally speaks to me, his words sharp as daggers. "If you want to waste your life behind a bottle, that's fine, but Raina and I need your help if either of us is to make it far."

Laughter bubbles up my throat and comes out louder and more obnoxious than it usually would. "Have you seen past games, kid? District Nine doesn't exactly have a great track record when it comes to these things."

"But you won," the girl pipes up, still pushing a runny egg around the good china. "That's gotta mean something, right?

Now it is Anton's turn to laugh. "Do you have a boyfriend that died a few years back in the games, after expressing his love for you?" The girl shakes her head. "No, didn't think so. Savannah here didn't win because she was the best at what she did, or was the most qualified. She won because of that silly boy from the Four games. His sacrifice gave us _this_ for a Victor."

Arjen, surprising us all, goes on the attack. "She slammed her scythe into that guy's chest while trying not to drown...I'm pretty sure she _earned_ that win."

"If you want to take advice from this lush pile over here that's fine by me," Anton huffs, walking towards the sleeping compartments. "I'll be planning out how I could possibly spin you two into something worth backing."

With that, we were all alone.

"Good, now we can get this thing started," I place the bottle of liquor back on the cart and snag myself a pipping hot coffee. "Either of you good at anything?"

The floodgates opened and boy did the water come rushing in. The boy came from a large farming family, made up of mostly children taken in by his fathers, so he was used to toil and hard work. However, I could tell just by judging his reaction to the younger children Reaped that he was going to lead with his heart and that is never a good sign. Sometimes, the younger tributes are the ones to look out for. Meanwhile, the girl, as sweet as she was, seemed to know her way around a bow and arrow, thanks to her line of work. What she doesn't know is that there is a huge difference between killing critters that are trying to eat your livelihood and killing an innocent child for your own survival.

"Do you think one of us will make it back home again, Miss Cambridge?" her voice, so full of hope, hits me hard.

I want to answer, I want to tell them the truth. They can be the most sought-after tribute with the best training and still fall to a starving child from Eleven, but in the same vein, they can have the biggest families to go home to and still die at the hands of an older boy that has no one back home. Each death, every child you kill, has a past, a family, a story. None of it is fair or just, it just is.

Nothing is ever fair in Panem; if it was, I would still have Noeah.

* * *

 **Matteo DeWitt – Winner of the 15th Annual Hunger Games**

 _ **Age of Victory: 16**_

 _ **Current Age: 19**_

* * *

This is my least favorite time of year.

I spend my months between trips to the Capitol alone, trapped inside my large home in Victor's Village, barely able to leave to even get myself fresh food and other amenities that I needed. Being alone makes what I've done a lot easier to handle, as I can't infect those around me with my paranoia and anxiety.

I've always been better off alone.

District Ten seems to breed reluctant Victors, if we are any indication to go by. Chance became a phenomenon, thanks to being the Games' first ever volunteer, giving his freedom up for the girl that was Reaped before him. He is just as broken inside as I am, despite coming from completely different roots and suffering in different ways inside our arenas. He had something (or, someone) to fight for, he had all of Panem backing him up and screaming his name. His death would have made him a martyr and most likely ended the games as we know it.

The only one that would have missed me would have been the animals I fed out on my father's farm.

My life was boring, as was my time in the arena. One dead at the hands of the Victor and a game that lasted over a tedious, unimaginative month left me as one of the less desirable winners. Chance tried his best to integrate me back into society, but he ultimately failed; once a loner, always a loner.

"I can't believe how smooth this ride is," the female tribute, Prudence Ashcroft exclaimed to no one in particular. "You know, my great grandfather was originally from District Six and he helped design these trains."

No one batted an eye at the girl, who took that as more than enough reason to continue on with her tale. "He gave up his life in Six to move to the plains of Ten and the rest is history. That's probably why I enjoy this ride so much, it's my great grandfather's legacy, I'm sure of it!"

"That's great," Chance deadpanned, not even trying to hide his disdain for the girl he was stuck mentoring. "Listen, you might not want to be as forthcoming while in the Training Center, especially when around people that are your enemy or the public."

She tosses her hair back, her faux laughter making her chest bounce ever-so-slightly. Unlike her partner, who seemed flighty and awkward, this girl was as bubbly as them come. Or, she wanted us to believe she was as bubbly as it comes. Either way, I can't see her being able to find or keep an alliance with this personality of hers.

Meanwhile, my tribute, fidgety Terrence Roscoe, has managed to go all of this time saying less than ten words to us. He's an average kid, a rancher's son, but he seems nervous being around all of us. The perfect tribute to give someone who knows a thing or two about socially ineptness.

"Fish stew _has_ to be my very favorite thing," she continues, this time talking to our escort since the beginning, an elderly lady by the name of Lourdes Musson, who seems amused by the girl. "Back home, we were lucky to have _anything_."

"What about you, Terrence?" I ask, trying to gravitate the conversation to anyone, or anything, but Prudence. "What do you like about your trip so far?"

"I bet it's the food," she answers for him, as he just shrugs his shoulders. "No, a guy like you, it's the shower. You smell amazing!"

She looks as though she's about to go into yet another story, so I cut her off. "Terrence can answer for himself. Can't you, _Terrence_?"

"The scenery is nice," he mumbles, pointing at the window. "Everything whips by so fast."

Eighteen words in two days.

Chance motions towards the next compartment and I quickly join him, leaving Lourdes to babysit the tributes. His face says it all, as does his actions. It's the same thing he's done for the past three years; I know the question before he asks it.

"Mentor them together or alone?"

"The girl is too peppy, too...obnoxious," I answer, rubbing the back of my neck as I speak. "No one else may want to team up with her."

"Should we drag the boy down with her?" As always, Chance Delgado speaks the truth. "Is it fair to make him team with her, just because no one else will?"

I can't help but think back to my own games. Polly Oxford was given the choice to team with me, the kid that got more out of hanging around with animals than humans, and she still chose me. He trained us together, despite the gap in ages, and I can't help but smile as I remember the girl and her crimson-colored curls. She was small, but feisty, easily a top pick for any alliance outside of the Careers. She even managed to score better than I did, at such a young age. Polly had sponsors lined up, while I didn't make a blip on the radar.

My win was on her coattails.

The past two years we trained them together, as I was getting used to my new role. Nothing good came from either one, especially last year when we had the youngest tributes of them all. Lilliana Bivens and Chord Ritter were the first two casualties, trained together, only to die moments apart.

"I can't make this decision, Chance," my voice breaks, making me sound like a scared fifteen year old again. "Please don't put that on my shoulders again."

He gives me a hug, acting the role of my big brother once again.

"We ask them," he gushed, his smile infectious. "Let them chose how they want us to do it. It worked for you."

 _At the expense of Polly._

Both tributes look at us, the wheels turning in their heads. A decision like this cannot be made lightly and thankfully, they were taking it very seriously. Even the girl had stopped talking long enough to let our words sink in-

"Let's do it!"

Or, maybe she wasn't.

"Think about it," she continued, her eyes lit up. "We are mentored as a set, at least, until we get into the Training Center. If we find others to be our allies, then we go our separate ways. If not, we pair up."

By Panem, I think that's the smartest thing she's said all night.

"Deal."

"To District Ten and a possible win!"

* * *

 **Mordecai Roane – Winner of the 2nd Annual Hunger Games**

 _ **Age of Victory: 15**_

 _ **Current Age: 31**_

* * *

District Eleven is going to be the talk of the Games this year.

First, we have the giantess; a large, imposing girl with a timid personality and two left feet. Quin Thorner was quite the sight and has been turning heads since her younger years, when her body refused to quit growing. As it stands, she towers more than a head over me, maybe even two, and several inches over her male partner in all of this. If only a towering personality came along with such sizable girl. Even now, she sits curled up on the seat furthest from the rest of us, out gunned by our testosterone, nibbling food on a near-constant basis. Oswald Silver, the replacement escort that came along after Monet Cornelius' mysterious disappearance, wants to force a fighter out of her and make a bigger splash, but I do not see that happening. This girl is whom she is, just as I was whom I was...a coward.

If she is to come out a winner, it will be a reluctant one; something I can relate all too well.

I was younger than both of my tributes when my name was called, smaller as well. My tributes rarely show me any kind of respect, given the nature of my games and the way in which I obtained victory. Not that I blame them, I guess, but it would be nice to be seen as more than just a spineless pacifist. Something more than I already see myself.

"Mr. Roane, sir," his voice cracked a bit, not showing the volunteer we saw just yesterday. "Shouldn't you be showing us some kind of strategy for, um, dealing with the Capitol?"

Oswald scoffed at the idea. "Strategy for the Capitol? Shouldn't you be more worried about the arena, boy?"

"I think I can handle a weapon in a place designed to oppress and possibly kill me," he deadpanned, not taking his eyes away from mine. "But how should we act around all these people cheering and chanting our names? What if they hate us? These are the things that will make or break us, correct?"

I couldn't help but smile as Oswald began to flub over his own words. "Of course, kid," I replied, leading him over towards Quin, who had grown fearful and wide-eyed over their exchange.

Josiah Graff seemed like your average District Eleven child; equal parts victim and rebel. He claimed to know nothing of the boy that was Reaped, a random runt of a child, and yet he spared him, giving him a chance at life while he fights for his own. Just an average field worker, handing with a blade from cutting down stalks, good at climbing trees, and a provider for his siblings. So why throw it all away if he didn't have to? This was either the brightest thing he could have ever done, or the stupidest.

Part of me goes with the later.

"You need to stand out," I inform them, patting the seat next to me so Josiah will sit and relax. "During your chariot ride, wave and smile, even if you have to force yourself. Do whatever you can to draw focus onto our district."

I pause, letting it all sink in. The wheels seem to be turning in Josiah's head, but Quin, unfortunately, seems terrified even more.

"The only place you do not want to show off is in training," I continued, lowering my tone. "You will train for three days and if there is any advice I can give you outside of not showing off, is try everything. Look for things that stand out, they might give you an inkling as to what you could be facing in the weeks to come.

"Once you complete your three days of training, you will perform for the Gamemakers and that will be the ultimate test. Do whatever you can, do it beyond your abilities. We are one of the lasts to be seen and they will be good and drunk by then, so let your presence be known. Score high and score well, don't be afraid to be an overachiever. If you are unsure of your abilities in an area, move on. Don't give them a reason to write you off."

I tell them the words I wish someone had told me. No one expected me to return, so why bother putting in the effort. I've been the only victory for the past fifteen years from Eleven and every year, I've tried to instill something in them, be a driving force behind bringing them home. Each tribute, whether they chose to be a tribute or had it thrust upon them, they all deserve someone to back them up, to make sure they are taken care of.

Sadly, they rarely make it long enough for me to even help them.

The Fifth Games were the last time we had a chance. Chord went toe to toe with the girl from Two, matching her in kills and malice, showing a side of him I never thought possible. He was another kid from the fields, starved and rebellious, but something snapped once his platform rose up in that forest. The survivalist came out in him, that much is certain, but to openly slaughter other children…

...the damage to your soul never truly leaves you. Not even after death.

Much like the other victors I know, I still see the face of my only kill. I wake up screaming, begging myself not to load that poisoned dart into the blowgun; sometimes I just scream my ally's name, over and over until I am too hoarse to continue. Even if one of these kids come home, they will never be the same. Josiah will come home to his siblings, unable to connect with them ever again. Quin will probably go catatonic, unable to function in society again.

There are not true victors in these games, only those that came back home with a pulse.

* * *

 **District Twelve – Coal**

 _ **Bertha Waters – Capitol Escort**_

 _ **Age of Debut – (retracted)**_

 _ **Current Age – (retracted)**_

* * *

Eighteen years.

It's been eighteen long, repetitive years, each year getting just a little closer to that brass ring before it is snatched from us. We almost had it last year, as we saw our first male tribute not from the dreaded Seam, but it was all for naught. It was another year that I ended up in the bar long before the Games came to a close, slamming them back with the first victor from Six.

I blame his tribute for the loss of Abel.

The children I picked this year are certainly no Abel. The boy, a chubby-faced cherub with a mouth of a vile demon, doesn't seem to want to take this seriously. His supposed innocence might gain him sympathy points from lonely Capitolites with nothing better to blow their money on, but the moment he opens his mouth, that money will pull out faster than his parents should have. Even now, he watches the recapping of the Reapings, poking fun at different tributes as they are called. If he was to say these things during Training, he will end up with a target on his back. For once, his angelic smile and eye batting will not save him.

The girl is just as bad, thanks to standing out in a mostly negative way. Instead of rising from the pens in front of stage, like all the tributes before her, she was dragged from inside the Justice Center itself, where she was sitting with her family, watching the Reapings with baited breath. This, coupled with the boy's spectacular run from the Peacekeepers that descended on him when he refused to come up onto the stage, makes District Twelve the pathetic loser once again. Oh Panem, what am I to do?

"That girl is _huge_!" his voice dances, as his eyes widen. "Did you see this lady, Ms. Waters?"

"Yes, Yorick, we saw her yesterday," I sigh, remembering how just twelve hours ago he was saying the same damn thing. "You made the same comment about her last time."

"But, it's even funnier now, especially with that graceful fall she took! What a klutz!"

 _Sigh._

If I was one that believed in such a thing, I would be nearly convinced there was some form of hex on this district; a fog of disappointment and despair that hangs over the entire town, seeping into the skin of all that step foot inside. I have yet to be given a chance to move on, holding the record for most years in a single district, thanks to my tributes' lackluster performance since the first year.

Yorick reminds me so much of Flint, my first male tribute. Mouthy, dirty little brat from the bottom of the barrel, he died after running his mouth to the wrong girl. With her missing eye and lone-wolf personality, she seemed like someone that would make just a slight dent in the first game, before becoming just another forgotten child, one of too many. Flint bragged about giving the girl hell during training; calling her cyclops and mutant, moving things as she was trying to grab them and going as far as to attempt to throw things into her empty eye socket, he was threatened by staff just to get him to behave himself.

She slit his throat not long after the bell rang.

His partner got far, taking out the girl from Two and the boy from Eleven, both larger and older than herself. She did her best to track down the girl that ended Flint's pathetic life, finally coming across her when they were the only ones that remained.

I put way too much stock in Anya Walden; that will never happen again.

"Two kids from outlining districts volunteered," Ailsa commented, trying to take the focus off of Yorick's horrid outbursts. "The girl looks average, but that boy...he looks desperate."

Yes, that was true. The girl was nothing to write home about, average at best. A moment of selflessness that she will regret once she reaches the arena. The boy, however, was larger, more imposing. Several children in the crowd cried out his name as he marched forward and one, a traumatized little boy that looked similar enough to the volunteer that you can easily tell was his younger brother, ran out of his pen and into his arms, begging him not to leave. Both should end up with a fair amount of sponsors, but the boy...he will end up the talk of the town.

Why couldn't I be graced with such luck?

"Do we have someone that will...I don't know...mentor us?" her question, while irksome, is a valid one. "Not to be rude, but we've never had a victor and the reason why might be our lack of, well, mentoring."

"Am I not good enough?" my voice raised, as is my blood pressure. "No, we do not have a mentor, as I am the best that you are going to get. Seventeen games have passed and I am still all that you will get. You want to mentor, to beg for sponsors and mourn the deaths of those that will never return? Be my guest and win these games. Kill your allies and mock those that will likely kill you as you sleep. Neither of you are worth it, honestly."

My words are harsh and I immediately regret them. Any confidence the girl had was now gone, while her male counterpart just looked on in a rage-filled silence. They think I am just being cruel for the sake of being so, but it goes further than that. Without a victor, I am the only thing these children have. Every time I give myself to these kids and push myself to bring them home, I find myself apologizing to their families. Mothers have wept at my feet as fathers have threatened my life. Siblings have begged for their return, while I hold myself together as best I can. And these kids want me to put my soul on the line for them.

I don't know if I can keep doing this...

* * *

 **A/N: Wow, you guys still around? I'm sorry for the lengthy update time. The laptop I was using to type went kaput, so I started writing on a tablet. That got cracked, so I picked up a cheap laptop off Facebook. THAT runs like molasses, thanks to malware, so I had to wait until I got the nice, beautiful laptop I am now using. So, expect better update times. Up next will be the Chariot Rides, so it will move onto the POVs of the actual tributes. YAY! As always, I'd like you guys to answer a few questions in your reviews.**

 _ **Which, if any, tributes stand out to you at the moment?**_

 _ **Which, if any, mentors stand out to you at the moment?**_

 **I should have the next chapter up soon! See you then, space cowboy!**


	6. Vogue

**To Come of Age – The 18th Annual Hunger Games**

" _Fashions fade; style is eternal." - Yves Saint Laurent_

 **Chariot Rides**

* * *

 **Quin Thorner**

 **Age 17, District Eleven Female**

* * *

They whisper as though they believe I cannot hear them, as though they believe me deaf at my height. It's the same way at home; the gawking masses and words they don't think can reach my ears from so far up. Yes, I can hear what you are saying and yes, your words hurt, as do your stares and laughing. It's something I've dealt with since I was small child…well, in age, not of height. In a lot of ways, I guess I've never known what it was like to be small.

Or normal, for that matter.

"Never before have we been forced to use so much fabric on one tribute," the one that resembled a large, pink-feathered bird scoffed, not even bothering to look at me. "I may even have to take some away from Josiah." She says his name as though he is her savior and, well, he just might be.

District Eleven has never had someone go into the games willingly.

His eyes are soft and kind, very different from the volunteers from the vanity districts. His build is imposing, which is similar to those beasts that choose to come here, but his comes from years of toil in the hot sun and under the thumb of Salvatore, the scariest field manager, rather than training to kill kids in the outer districts, those that don't stand a chance. Kids like myself, cowardly and naive.

"He is going to be the saving grace of this forsaken district," she continues, stitching up the left side of my costume. "We will jump ahead of all those others and put in charge of real districts...winning districts."

The other members of my prep team nod in unison, as though they had all of this planned out for weeks; as though they saw into the future and knew of Josiah's volunteering, that he may win. I couldn't help but feel worse about myself, as no one was better on the giant girl with two left feet. No one was counting on me to go home, not even my own team.

Tears peppered my eyes as their talking continued, speaking only of Josiah and his large build, while I was merely a side thought. They were making him the star of our District, putting all their eggs into his basket, and I was less than nothing. It's the same at home, I am nothing more than a sideshow. These games will just make it even worse. I just want to go home to Filbert, to my mothers; back to normal.

"With your, ahem, _frame_ ," her words are spit at me, as though made of speaking to me was making her physically ill. "You shall be an orchard tree; inviting, swift, looming. Shelter for the handsome, ripped picker, Josiah. Your costumes will tell a story, one of favor for both of you, which is better than you deserve."

Ouch.

She finished the rest in forced silence before sending me on my way with a quick flick of her hand. The long, empty hallway gave way to the bustle that is the backstage area of the annual Chariot Ride, or our second attempt to gain financial backers. The others are beautiful and strong, confident warriors and hard working children of large families, all with a story better than my own and the will to survive. The only thing I have going for me is the very thing that has hindered my desire for an uneventful life; my size.

The others take quick notice of me, quieting as I walk on past, my eyes trained at the floor. Their murmurs hit my ears as hard as if they were screamed from the rooftops, even if I cannot understand what they are saying, I can already read the script in my head. Hushed tones speak louder than the worst insults thrown at your face and it takes everything in me to hold it together until I reach Josiah, whom awaits with a grin and a costume far different from my own.

His chest is exposed, leaving little for Panem to discover about him. Thick arms, neatly placed at his side as though all of this was meaningless, a _Volunteer_ status hanging over his head like a neon sign, he was too much for this place. Men as a whole frighten me, but for some reason, I can't seem to fear Josiah. Just by looking at his soft smile, you can tell he wasn't in this for fame and glory, no, there was something more at foot. However, it also wasn't for selfless reasons and saving the life for another.

There was something more to him.

Standing by the horses of the neighboring chariot stood the girl I recognized as the girl from Ten. Her eyes are just as wild as they were when her name was called, a look of horror and excitement on her face as she bounced her way up to the stage and waved to the crowd. Even now, she seemed a bit too eager to be apart of this, like it was her life long dream.

Maybe I am reading a bit too much into this.

"Hey, Eleven!" she squeals, rushing to my side, grabbing my hand. "Boy, you are tall! I'm Prudence, Prudence Ashcroft...District Ten, if you didn't get it by the costume!"

True to what we'd expect from the Livestock District, Prudence was decked out in a white, fluffy mess of a lamb costume. Her face was animated as she spoke; her words tripping over each other as I struggled to keep up. Josiah could only shrug his shoulders and smile as he slipped into the chariot, leaving me alone with someone who speaks more in three minutes than I have in the past three years.

"...and we'd make the best pair!" I catch her saying, as she grips my hand tighter. "You're so tall, no one will be afraid of you and I'm wicked at a lot of things, just don't tell anyone here. I bet the Careers will even want us on their team!"

Before I can even get a word in she is gone, bouncing her way back to her District Partner, a boy that looks as terrified as I feel.

"Let's go, Quin dear!" Josiah booms from his spot slightly above me, offering me a strong hand to join him. "The Capitol awaits."

* * *

 **Aleksandr Skala**

 **Age 18, District Two Male**

* * *

This year's crop of future slaughtered youth seems to be more and more inept and pathetic with each passing district. From the harlot from One to the little ball of vanilla pudding from Twelve, they will each fall and most of them at my hands, if I had my way. Gut the little blonde piggy and use his insides as decoration, all while smashing the giantess from Eleven's face into a rock until not even her family could recognize her. Drool escapes my lips for just a moment as I my body shutters and locks up.

"Let's go, _hero_ ," Atticus sneers in my direction, barely looking at me. After I stole the thunder of that pile of muscle that _dared_ to threaten my life, he has wanted nothing to do with me. "Get your costume on and get out there, Nicola is already at the horses and possibly chatting up the other alliance members."

A large part of me doubts it. A Reaped tribute, especially one without proper training, made a member of the great alliance...I can almost feel my lunch rise up in my throat. No, she would be better off on her own or with another set of whiny, low-level females. My alliance will be better for it.

"Coming, _sir_ ," I answer, dipping each letter in so much sugar he could die from it. "Wouldn't want to keep the world waiting, now would we?"

His look reminds me of the boyfriend I am leaving behind in Two, quiet, polite little Hanaka and I can't help but smile at that. Both have little annoyances that made me want to drain the blood from the body before leaving the rest for the animals in the woods, but they also serve their purpose. For Hanaka, it's appearances and devotion, while it is sponsors and the fun of destroying the legacy of the great Atticus Winder. Anything to wipe the smug look off of his face. He may have won when he was younger than I am now, but age has not done him justice.

With the last of my golden armor in place, I am free to leave my vexing stylist behind and join my future casualties out in the open. First appearances mean everything, so I flash my best smile and flip back my white-blonde hair and tackle my fate head on. Towards the front, I find a listing of the usual suspects; the bumbling buffoon from One, his partner, the girl that makes trying too hard an art form, and my real competition, the fierce girl from Four. She will be lovely to take down.

Even now, she stands poised, ready to spear us all down with the makeshift trident her partner was gallantly swinging around. Their fisherman and his mermaid catch motif seemed mismatched, as he was surely the more feminine of the bunch. Another Reaped kid from a powerful district, a blemish on their perfection. Unlike Nicola, he will be easy to manipulate and mold into the puppet I need for him to be, and it will strengthen my alliance with the girl.

Speaking of Nicola, she has already moved passed us and is skulking in the background, watching the rest of us from afar.

The clumsy oaf from One was the first to notice my arrival and put his hand out right away for a handshake. "Hey man, I'm Carnelian Links...nice to meet you."

Ever the gentleman, I return the sentiment. "Aleksandr Skala, District Two."

"Are you the only one making it to this alliance?" his partner cut to the chase, not bothering with any sort of formalities. "So far, it looks like it will just be the five of us and even Leith over here isn't a true Career."

Career; such an ugly, vile word.

Leith seemed to snap at the mention of his name and an underlining temper that will be funny to play with while deep into the arena. "Excuse me, toots, but I had planned on volunteering this year. Not exactly my fault that my name was called before it could."

"A likely excuse-"

"Fighting like this in front of everyone will make us look weak," Four hissed, nodding towards the small boy from Three and the pair from Five, all children I don't see making it farther than a day, especially the boy from Five. His eyes are sad and jittery, his body malnourished and dirty, as if his prep team refused to touch him. "The five of us will need to work as a team until the time comes for us to split, alright?"

"There were two other volunteers this year," Carnelian pointed out, going out of his way to point towards the girl from Seven, who leaned against the post her horses were tied to, showing complete listlessness. Not far from her, the physically fit boy from Eleven was helping the absurdly tall girl he was saddled with as a partner into the chariot. "What do you think, Aleksandr?"

"We keep an eye on them tomorrow morning," I deadpan, keeping my eyes on the boy. "See what they can do. And you," I point at Leith. "You can prove yourself tomorrow."

"Who died and named you our leader?" Four spits, looking as though she might strike me down right here and now. "I can vouch for this blockhead; he may not be the brightest bulb, but he'll help us in the long run."

"TRIBUTES! TO YOUR CHARIOTS!"

"No one died, my dear," I grin, mocking a bow as I back up towards my chariot. "You can have the reigns of this ragtag team."

In the past, the leader is always the first to fall. Power goes to their head, others become resentful, the list of problems that lurk in the background is long and ever growing. The one in charge is always the one blamed and that is the last thing I want to happen to me. Better to just let Four believe she is pulling all the strings.

Nicola is her usual stoic self as the chariot lurches forward and out the gates.

My time to shine!

* * *

 **Leith Aberforth**

 **Age 18; District Four Male**

* * *

"Who does that... _girl_...think she is?"

I don't even need to see Omayra's face to know that she is once again rolling her eyes at me. She has barely said more than a few sentences to me since we were on stage and yet, acts as if it is I that have the problem. Seriously, she is just as bad as the chick from One. At least Aleksandr seems to have my back, even if he is making me prove my worth. Hell, this could work out more in my favor, as it will show them exactly what I can do and why doubting me will be the last thing they do.

The horses jolt a bit, signaling the start of the Tribute Parade, and all negative thoughts leave my head.

Despite people telling us that the Reaping is the first place sponsors look for the perfect tribute, I've always believed it was this moment; your life as a tribute begins in these opening moments. If you have a bad attitude, much like my partner, it will leave backers with a bad taste in their mouths, so to speak. From there, it's an uphill battle of getting the best Training Score or having a memorable interview, when it can all be avoided by smiling and waving.

The sound is almost deafening; names are being screamed, people are throwing themselves to the ground, and signs are raised high in the air with the hopes of being seen by us. Of course, I see a few for Aleksandr; his white-blonde hair goes over well with the crowd and a few look as though they've dyed their own locks to match his. I blow kisses at the crowd and wave as hard as I can, drawing whatever attention I can to myself.

"Calm down, slick," Omayra hisses at me, trying to weigh me back down to earth with her annoyance at my antics. "No one is paying attention to-"

"LEITH! LEITH! LEITH!"

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of Capitolites calling my name!"

There is a thrill that comes with being the center of attention and it's a thrill I know all too well. My charm and good looks get me what I want, as well as my position as the son of one of the wealthiest ship captains in the south-side, not to mention my pull with the mayor, who happens to be my maternal cousin. Attention is all I get at home and there is no reason why I shouldn't be basking in it here, no matter what Miss Crabby Pants here has to say.

"Wave!" I instruct her, trying to give her even the slightest push in the right direction. "Your lack of enthusiasm is making me look bad!"

"Heaven forbid," she mumbles, crossing her arms. "I don't see the point in playing into their hands. We don't need to be so...stereotypical."

"You're a buzzkill."

"And you're an idiot if you think jumping around is going to get people to send you medicine when you're sick or a gold-plated sword," she retorts, still refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead. "Proving you are worth the money spent is all these... _people_...care about."

Way to kill my high.

No, I won't let her do that.

Mother said I was born the very day they announced the punishment for their rebellion, that I was meant to be in these games one way or another. The fact that the games _chose_ me to go in, while the rest of these people had to volunteer, is another thing I have over them. To boot, Omayra's only here to avenge her oldest sister, who let her foolish pride get in the way and was taken down by some cattle wrangler. She should've stayed home with her Peacekeeper daddy and left these games to someone who would have enjoyed it.

Someone more like myself.

Back home, there were girls that would have given their family name to join me. Not for the fame or glory, but to see _me_ come home with the fame and glory. Their names would've become legend as someone who helped mold the greatest victor District Four and all of Panem will ever have. Conceded, yes, but that's just how Leith Aberforth does thing and if it will get me all the things I want in life, then so be it. Becoming a third generation captain on _The Gemini_ was never in the cards for me, I was always destined for greatness.

In the corner of my eye I caught the faintest of smiles from my usually serious partner, then caught sight of what was making her so merry. A pair of younger girls, obviously sisters, held up a sign with her name is bright colors and a message that they were banking on her. Much to their delight, they earned the only wave and smile she would give during the whole parade.

Not bad, ladies.

One of the worst things you can do is go into these games is come in with a negative attitude. No one wants to back a downer, no matter what skills you possess. People want to watch the tributes with a pep in their step, with a little something extra. I am nothing but extra, that's for sure and I know I was made to do more than be just another captain in District Four. My sisters were made for the sea, I was created for glory beyond what my District could ever give me, beyond my family's name. I refuse to let my status as a Reaped tribute from a Career District stop me from achieving what I was born to do. That girl from Two might want no part of the rest of us, but I want this more than I've wanted anything else in this world.

Back home, I have a lot waiting for me. Friends, some the best of them, some clinging to the legacy attached to my name; girlfriends that seem to fall into similar categories, it's hard to know whom I can trust. The same can be said here, Aleksandr makes a great case a friend, but with his desire to have me prove myself to him, it makes him just a bit suspect. Omayra may play to the old District Four motto of never kill your own, but how can I expect her to stand by it, if I don't believe in it myself? I don't care if it's one of the little brats from the dirty outer districts, or a member of my own alliance, I will kill anyone that stands in the way of me getting what I want. Everyone around me is a threat, everyone around me I an enemy, and my own survival is the only thing that matters. Glory is the prize that is being dangled at the end of the tunnel, whatever gets you there is just your past.

Nothing in life matters except for Leith Aberforth.

* * *

 **Bernice Ramsey**

 **Age: 18, District Eight Female**

* * *

The roar of the overzealous and, dare I say it, colorful crowd is almost at a fever peak as we our horses lurch our carts forward and spring us into the spotlight. Districts One through Three lead the way, each with their own unique take on their respective districts and what their stylists see in them. After Four, however, it all seems to go downhill in quality and taste, with Eight being at the bottom of the barrel, so to speak, drowning alongside the likes of Twelve. Why those of us from a District specifically used as the epicenter of The Capitol's fashion are constantly decked out as though our costumes were created by someone suffering from colorblindness, is beyond me. Even now, Maury and myself are stuck wearing costumes that were made from a hodgepodge of patterns and materials, as if they only used what remained behind from other people's costumes. It's pathetic and a horrible way to showcase what my district has to offer.

Maury mumbles something in a language only he understands, sound something to the likes of _cest drop fort_ and I can't help but nod at him. "Yeah, drop fort to you, too." His eyes tell me all I need to know, which is that we are never going to be able to communicate to each other. It's a shame, really.

Poor kid doesn't have a hope in the world.

Where this kid came from is beyond me. Rumors have swirled since his family seemed to just appear out of nowhere a few years back; their language a mystery, the father of the family assumed dead, they were unlike any other person in the district. Panem, despite separating our citizen's via their industry, speaks a native tongue and for them to sneak in undetected, speaking a different language was something to gossip about.

And I know all about town gossip.

"Itchy..." It's the first thing the kid has said thus far that I've understood.

"I'm with you, kid."

My eyes find themselves trained on the girl from Nine, waving to the very people that will be cheering on her death in just a few days time. Unlike the rest of us outer district tributes, the kids from Nine are dressed to impress, looking like gods and goddesses of the harvest, a stark difference from their emotional, and somewhat forgetful Reapings. It disgusts me, witnessing kids from districts that no one usually cares for being forced to gravel for the attention and possible sponsorship of people that bet against them when it comes down to it. It's grotesque, if I am to be honest. Eighteen years is too long for this to keep happening; we should never have been born into this. Children are paying for the sins of the parent and no one is brave enough to stop it.

"Bernice..."

His tiny voice pulls me in and I can't help but feel a lump in my throat. He has a family back home, same as the rest of us, but I have little faith that they understand why Maury was stolen from them. There is a language barrier, probably a cultural one too, depending on wherever they actually came from. The little one in the family, the girl, translates as best she can, as she was brought into Panem as she was learning language skills. Hopefully, some of it rubbed off on the boy…

I couldn't help but notice the overwhelming amount of younger children in this year's games. The outer, poorer districts were a little more understandable, what with tessera being a mainstay in most homes, but it still didn't make it any easier to watch. Besides my partner, there were four other children under fourteen, including the pudgy boy from Twelve, which shocked a lot of people, and the gimpy girl from Five. I can't help but think of my own siblings, waiting at home, hoping against hope that I come back.

With tributes like these, who knows how far I'll get!

District Eight has had two winners thus far, in the form of the first ever winner and Woof, our mentor. The first one went blind in the games and lost it, ending her life in her bathtub at home. Meanwhile, Woof little to no memories of his games, despite them being all our district talks about when his name is mentioned. He won only two years ago and it was a complete fluke. His first kill, a girl younger than him, he bumped into while passing on a narrow spot overlooking a canyon and she fell to her death. The other, a well-time rock throw as he was falling down to what should have been his death, where he managed to bleed out slower than the boy from Four.

District Eight is nothing but a joke.

The crowd focuses most of their attention on the ones that chose to be here; the likes of One, Two, Four, and the strange girl from Seven. Why one would actually _want_ to be here is beyond me, but that could make her a dark horse in the running. Even the boy from Eleven went in willingly, but the crowd still seemed to forget he was around. Every once in awhile, the odd name would be heard among the masses, but never for too long. We are nothing but fodder for the great ones, nameless victims.

No one cares for those that fall, while they have a victor to love.

The chariots come to a halt as we enter the circle, which in reality is more of a half-circle, surrounding the President's podium, where all of The Capitol's elite watch and Cross makes his speech. It is the same every year, welcoming us to this year's games and how he expects big things from all of us. The forty-something president of Panem is easily a mountain of a man, clearly earning his nickname of "Iron Cross", with pasty skin covering his large, muscular frame. Dark eyes glared at each of us, silencing the crowd without the need of saying so, bringing his time to shine into the forefront.

After all, this was all his doing, his grand punishment for all that opposed him.

"Welcome, Tributes, to the 18th Annual Hunger Games!" The crowd popped quickly, only to stop themselves just as fast as to not miss a word. "This year's game is indeed a special one, as this is the first year we have no tributes born during our darkest of days. Oh, to be so young and bold once again."

Bullshit.

He continues, in a voice still devoid of any real human emotion. "Gone are the days of childhood, of toys and frolicking; no, we have grown into the men and women we will become. Remember that, as we continue on this journey together. Happy Hunger Games..."

* * *

 **Yorick Maines**

 **Age: 14; District Twelve**

* * *

"….and may the odds be ever in your favor."

 _Yawn._

 _Boring!_

I thought these were called the _Hunger Games_ not the _Snooze Games._ Honestly, this has just been the worst time I've ever had, even surpassing that time the Peacekeeper caught me pretending to climb the gate that keeps us contained in our little district and he laughed, telling me I wouldn't get my tubby butt up there no matter how hard I tried. Harsh, but nevertheless true.

Our chariots turned and made their way back towards the remake center, leaving us all off to take just three elevators back up to our rooms. Ailsa vanished as soon as the chariot came to a stop, taking the first elevator up with a few others without so much as a goodbye, leaving me alone among the crowd. The others tower over me, except maybe the little, dirty kid from Five that reminds me of some of the boys that would drool over the glass front of the Sweet Shoppe next door.

Was it wrong? Yes, but comedy is selective.

No one could believe that a kid like me could be Reaped, I almost didn't believe it when my own name echoed around me. Kids like me didn't get picked; older siblings from the Seam that take out a bunch of tessera go into the games and never come back. Even my older brother Nyles had his name in the bowl more times than I did and yet, here I stand.

The joke is lost on me.

As I approached the boy from Five, his eyes grew wide and feral, scampering off into the crowd, bumping into the cocky boy from Four before diving into an elevator. Four snapped and dove, trying in vain to grab the little rascal, but landed on his face again, much to the delight of everyone around him...except, maybe, his district partner. She rolled her eyes so hard, I swear she could see the inside of her skull, then headed to the same elevator as Five and left him, and her fellow Careers, behind. Beside me, the boy from Three chuckled and I instantly knew I had a way in.

"Well, that kid's gonna make it to the end," I pipped up, elbowing the smaller boy in the chest. "I don't think the rest of us have a chance."

He laughed harder than he did the last time. "Could you imagine? I'd actually like to see that happen, well, if I could. For him to win, we'd have to be dead."

"Worth it?" my belly shook with laughter. "I'm Yorick, Twelve. District, not age."

"Cuyler. Three." He put a shaky hand out, which I quickly took. "You always this much of a cut up?"

I shook my head. "No. At least sometimes I have sleep."

And, like that, a friendship was forged.

The elevators worked overtime, taking up single tributes and, sometimes, the pair or new alliance, all while Cuyler and I stayed back, watching as the disappeared. Both of our respective partners disappeared early, even managing to get onto the same exit out of the place, while we made small talk about our chances in the games. I noticed early signs of coupling, like the giantess from Eleven being swindled by the girl from Ten...the one that just didn't seem to sit right with me, as well as the slightly older boys from Seven and Ten. The overenthusiastic volunteer from Two made a beeline for the kid from Eleven, who also chose to be here for one reason or another, making sure to ask him if he would meet him by the weapons station tomorrow morning loud enough for all of us to hear, securing his recruitment into the famed Career Team.

Poor kid doesn't know what's ahead of him.

"So, do you have a plan?"

His question catches me off guard for a moment, but I recover quickly. "Do I look like the kind of guy with a plan?"

We laugh once more.

"But seriously, no," I finally answer, my voice wavering just a bit. "I have no clue what I'm going to do, but if I can at least go out laughing, I'll be happy. Kids like us...we don't stand a chance."

My new friend bites his trembling lip, our lot in life finally hitting him.

"Look, we have days to figure it out," I reassure him, patting him on the back. "Come on, let's get out of here."

As we enter the furthest elevator, we are joined by the other boy our age, a raggedy kid from Nine...no, Eight. His patchwork suit was far more suited for the Textile District than one filled with grain. He nodded at us, mostly staying silent as the doors closed in front of us.

"Hey, nice suit...did someone make you wear it on a dare?" I ask, putting my hand out. "I'm Yorick, District Twelve."

He stares at my hand with a look of confusion in his glossy eyes. "Excusez-moi?" I can tell that he asked a question, but the words before that make no sense.

"Did you suffer a brain injury out there, kid?" Cuyler asked, hesitant to join me in making this kid feel welcome. "You're not making sense."

"Excusez-moi?" he repeats, his voice getting a little high pitched and squeaky. "Ce qui se-"

The doors open again, exposing the District Three floor and Cuyler quickly excused himself, before leaving me alone for a few more floors with the weird kid.

"Listen kid, I can't help you out if I can't understand you," I try to put my hand on his shoulder, but he ducks away. "But if you want a friend or two, meet up with us down there and you can hang with the coolest people you'll ever know."

He smiled at me and nodded, as if he actually understood me this time round, and ducked onto the eighth floor, disappearing out of sight. Not sure what is up with that kid, but he needs someone to look out for him, even if it's just for a little while. Besides, us little guys need to stick together if we're to have any chance in this thing.

* * *

 **Paget Moss**

 **Age 16; District Six**

* * *

The ride through the streets of the Capitol was a lesson on being naked in front of all of Panem, while still wearing clothes. People fainting over you, acting as though they know the real you, the person you were before your life was ripped from you, it was all too much for me. Do they know why I detest violence so much? Why looking into the eyes of the woman that is supposed to save me both fills me with such trepidation and homesickness? How I feel so hallow and forgotten? No, because these are the very things I keep from even myself. They want us to perform for them, to give meaning to their vapid lives, and open our deepest wounds. In just a few days, our wounds will be all we have. It's barbaric and depraved, punishing us for something that happened before any of us were born.

How can they get their kicks off of watching us murder each other for the chance to come home even more broken than we came in?

I don't even bother to wait around for Niall and instead go for the elevator, walking past the girls from Eleven and Ten as the later tried to talk the former into an alliance. Part of me wanted to stop, to listen in on them, but I know it wouldn't do me a bit of good. Talking to others without staring at the ground isn't exactly my strong suit and, well, alliances can get messy very easily. Who's going to want to be with a girl that can't defend herself? I'm extra baggage, a hindrance.

Back home, there are few that would actually miss me. Mother didn't bother to see me off and it will be days before she even realizes that I'm not there; most likely she is in the alley just minutes from our dilapidated home with a needle in her arm and a wave of euphoria encasing her. My father, if you could call him that, would beat me whenever he found her high, which was often. He blamed me for his gambling debts and for her addiction, for anything that he possibly could to make he treatment of me socially acceptable in his eyes. I wasn't even fazed when he was drug out of our home in the dead of night five years ago, I barely blinked when we found him hanging from pole near the old train depo. Friends are few and far between, when you have social and trust issues, so the only things that might actually miss my presence is my collection of books handed down to me by my late grandmother. Reading is an easy escape from a world so dark.

My life wasn't a happy one, but at the end of the day, it was my own.

Upstairs, I am greeted by the same eyes I would have been met with if I was back home. A yellowish hue has taken over what was once so bright and inviting, a permanent downtrodden look spread across her face, the marks that all the makeup in the Capitol couldn't hide...the signs any daughter of an addict would recognize and despise. It's almost ironic that Coriander would be stuck as my mentor, while our best chance at a third victor was given to the depraved hands of Steam Douglass, a man with little remorse.

"You were too ridged, girl," his voice cuts through me as though I was made of nothing. "These colorful wastes of space won't spend a dime to save someone that has already given up on themselves."

"I-I haven't given up," my voice stammers, refusing to defend itself from his words. "I just don't like people looking at me like that, like a hunk of meat."

"Do you even know what I hunk of meat looks like?" he scoffs, throwing my poverty in my face. "You are weak, worse than your mentor is."

Coriander says nothing, her body twitching every time his voice raised. Not once has she defended me from his words, nor has she even spoken to me. To be honest, I don't even know what her voice actually sounds like and I doubt I even will. For someone entrusted with the life of another person, she was doing a bang up job protecting it.

"At least you're a looker," he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering just a little too long. "Coriander didn't give me anything to work with, but you...we can sell this. Innocence taken in the prime of her life, a body the Capitol will pay top dollar to return to them for the next few years."

Return to them? What does he mean?

"You think the sponsors are just being generous when they send you medicine and food?" he asks, as if he read my mind. "It's a loan, baby. That meal the Capitol sent to myself and that cattle wrangler's kid? I paid for that on the anniversary of my Victory Tour."

I could feel the color draining from my face.

Steam, Coriander, the beautiful girl from One that came back a few years ago...they've been forced to sell themselves back to the Capitol, to make up for all that was spent on them. Makes sense, in a way, especially when you see the state that they come back in. The first winner, a girl from Eight, ended her own life. Drug addictions, alcoholism, forced prostitution...it seemed like one or more hit each victor that has come down the pike, like a worst possible prize to an even worse game.

Will that be my fate?

"They will use you up and spit you out, worse than you were before," he continues, his voice almost sing-songy. "It's what we are here for, nothing more than mindless entertainment. This will continue for a hundred years at least, maybe even more. Long after the rebels in the districts are gone, long after we are all gone, the games will still continue and we will still be made to suffer."

"….suffer the little children."

"We are all brought here for a reason," his smile dims for just a moment. "I was a bully and the son of one as well, the girl from Nine was chosen because of her idiotic boyfriend, and you...there will be a reason for you to be here, if you live."

The elevator doors open and my partner in all of this returns, his eyes refusing to meet ours, his mop of brown hair sticking out all over the place. His arms twitch and sweat dripped from his brow, almost as if he was sick with a flu that we cannot see. Niall is a secretive one, filled with a ghost that he doesn't want to infect anyone. He said right off the bat that he refused to be partnered with me, that we were to be trained separately, and honestly, I'm fine with that. But there is something about him that draws me to him, the need to fix him is in me, for I am a fixer of broken things.

Mother. Niall. Maybe Coriander if I can return.

Never will I fix myself.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm not dead! I'm back!**

 **Life kinda got int the way of this, but I am determined to finish this. Thank you for all of you that stuck around, especially HogwartsDreamer for reminding me that I still have fans out there. You're amazing! Expect the next chapter up soon with another six tributes.**


End file.
